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DREAMS 


BY 


OLIVE     SCHREINER 


AUTHOR'S  EDITION 


BOSTON 

ROBERTS    BROTHERS 

1891 


;? 

■■#. 


Mrs.  Olive  Sc^jkeiner  Cronwi-ightMfri 
questi'on-abJy  the  most  prominent  woman,  in 
south  Africa,  as'*rell  as  the  ablest  author 
of  either  sex  iw  that  ne#  country.  In 
her  discussion  of  "  The  Woi^an  Question  " 
ill  the  cuiTent  Cosanopolitan,  sihe  uses  the 

same  daring  and   forceful  style  as  in  her 
"""  ii      aao.i    "■»— r  --       —    I  ..... 

injjepnovv      siq^    An    noX     .^^,\,  ,    .^^\i  , 
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SI  poB  'jsiSoiojEoijap  }U9n 
-]md  UE  jo  uouasAui  gq; 

SI   Siqx      'SJEDS    JO    UOIIBJO 

-loosip  'niEd  ;nomm  "oja 
'stajB  'j[D9a  '90B}  aqj  tnojj 
JiBq  aiQBJTsapun  9.'Vora3J 
AnuauErajgd  poE  AuuEjsai 
inA\    -aHAOWH^   "yiVH 

.4^3M  -s3aoH"a  '"aa 


•p'Baaun  sA^aj  pinoijs 
sja^jai  qsjiSug  jo  jaAOj  ou  ^-buj  liooq  •h 
951BUI  pinOitt.  uitq  JO  X^s  ^aqi  ^BqAi.  puB  uiaqi 
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30  ijnj  8JB  Xaq;  joj  'suonBajsnn!  918  Jiaq? 
uioaj  apisB  Sui;saja;uj  eq  p[noAi.  „  9jii  „ 
Sim  tin  8JIBUI  oi  oS  ;Bm  sauiniOA  oaij  aqx 

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JO  9UIBU  B  osiB  inq  XiiuiBj  siq  o;  suniaoj  b 
jCiuo  :jou  SUIAB3I  "paip  en  'injuiBd  puB  Suoi 
SBAi  ssauin  jsB[  S!H  'ajll  'eiqBuojqsBj  ^ou 
inq  'iBioos  paXofua  aj-i    'qnio  sjq  ui  ubui  eiQB 

-SajgB  ISOUI  B  pUB  XllUIBJ  UAiO  Sjq  U{  UBUI  inj 

-^qSqap  jsom  b  uaaq  OABq  o;  smaas  sibihh 

•9-iaiduioo  U93q  OA-eq  pinoM  sseujddBii  sm  ,,  aa.\ 
-nino  ,.  fB3J  9U?  uaaq  sa-bh  pinoo  eq  ji  ^-em  pa:n:m 
9q  30UO  UBqj  ajoui  puT3  lAiaiA  s  o}  apuapj  sjq  Suj 
-:)'Bajj  puB  .4}iso.iisuoiu  sq^  auis9s  ui  Xauoui-^asiaoci 
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agqijg  jo  :)UB!3  v  uaqAV  '.I'BiliUi-Bj  eaaM  qoundl 
JO  saap-BOj  n^  qoiqM  qjiM  pjuu.isg:  -ig  93nq  •b 
,,'3u3qO  ,,  JO  uojssassod  gqi  .iq  patjii'BjS  sbm  ajis 
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9q:>  JO  aq  jsniu  'oo:>  'Sop  s)h  'Japjo  oiaauiou 
oq:i  JO  9q  rjsniu  suoijtnj  jjaqj  pu-e  'laaj  xjs  j9ao 
saqoui  jnoj  JO  sajq;  puB^s  i\v  ?sniu  saujoaeq  pu-e 
saoaaq  sjh  ■suonJOdoad  ibssojod  jo  saaniBejo  joj 
p9A.i9S9a  sBM  'isBaq  JO  UT31U  JOJ  jaqieqM  'uojjujjut 
-p'B  ;saq3iq  sjq  lunooDB  :j-Bq-j  uo  sd«qj9d  pu-e  'Jias 
-luiq  UBiu  iiTjius  V  ^nq  suai  aq   'aAnoB  puB  Suoj^s 


A  SMALL  GIRL-CHILD, 

WHO    MAY    LIVE   TO    GRASP 

SOMEWHAT    OF    THAT    WHICH    FOR     US 

IS  YET  SIGHT,   NOT    TOUCH. 


THE  STORY  OF  AN  AFRICAN 
FARM 

BY    RALPH    IRON 

{Olive  Schreiner) 

Price,  60  cents. 


NOTE. 


cr'HESE  Dreams  are  printed  in  the 

order  in  which  they  were  written. 

In  the  case  of  two  there  was  a  lapse 

of  some  years  between  the  writing  of  the 

first  and  last  parts ;    these  are  placed 

according  to  the  date  of  the  first  part, 

Olive  Schreiner. 
Matjesfontein, 

Cape  Colony, 

South  Africa. 

November^  i8go. 


CONTENTS. 


CBAP.  PAGB 

I.   THE  LOST  JOY  .                 .                •  .II 

n.   THE  HUNTER               ...  23 

(From  "The  Story  of  an  African  Farm.") 

III.   THE   GARDENS    OF    PLEASURE      .  '5^ 

TV,   IN  A   FAR-OFF  WORLD             .                ,  57 

V.    THREE   DREAMS    IN   A   DESERT  .  .         65 

VL   A   DREAM    OF   WILD    BEES       .                  .  87 

(Written  as  a  letter  to  a  friend. ) 

VII.    IN    A   RUINED    CHAPEL  .                 .  "97 

VIII.    life's  GIFTS                .                 ,                ,  113 

IX.   THE  artist's   SECRET    .                .  •      H? 

X,    I   THOUGHT  I   STOOD               .                .  1 23 

XI.   THE   SUNLIGHT   LAV   ACROSS   MY   BED  .       131 


THE  LOST  JOY, 


DREAMS. 


THE  LOST  JOY. 

LL  day,  where  the  sunlight 
played  on  the  sea-shore,  Life 
sat. 

All  day  the  soft  wind 
played  with  her  hair,  and  the  young, 
young  face  looked  out  across  the  water. 
She  was  waiting — she  was  waiting  ;  but 
she  could  not  tell  for  what 

All  day  the  waves  ran  up  and  up  on 
the  sand,  and  ran  back  again,  and  the 
pink  shells  rolled.  Life  sat  waiting ;  all 
day,  with  the  sunlight  in  her  eyes,  she 


14  THE  LOST  JOY. 

sat  there,  till,  grown  weary,  she  laid  her 
head  upon  her  knee  and  fell  asleep, 
waiting  still. 

Then  a  keel  grated  on  the  sand,  and 
then  a  step  was  on  the  shore — Life 
awoke  and  heard  it.  A  hand  was  laid 
upon  her,  and  a  great  shudder  passed 
through  her.  She  looked  up,  and  saw 
over  her  the  strange,  wide  eyes  of  Love 
— and  Life  now  knew  for  whom  she  had 
sat  there  waiting. 

And  Love  drew  Life  up  to  him. 

And  of  that  meeting  was  born  a  thing 
rare  and  beautiful — Joy,  First-Joy  was 
it  called.  The  sunlight  when  it  shines 
upon  the  merry  water  is  not  so  glad ; 
the  rosebuds,  when  they  turn  back  their 
lips  for  the  sun's  first  kiss,  are  not  so 
ruddy.  Its  tiny  pulses  beat  quick.  It 
was  so  warm,  so  soft !  It  never  spoke, 
but  it  laughed  and  played  in  the  sun- 
shine :  and  Love  and  Life  rejoiced  ex- 


THE  LOST  JOY.  15 

ceedingly.  Neither  whispered  it  to  the 
other,  but  deep  in  its  own  heart  each 
said,  "It  shall  be  ours  for  ever." 

Then  there  came  a  time — was  it  after 
weeks  ?  was  it  after  months  ?  (Love  and 
Life  do  not  measure  time) — when  the 
thing  was  not  as  it  had  been. 

Still  it  played  ;  still  it  laughed  ;  still 
it  stained  its  mouth  with  purple  berries  ; 
but  sometimes  the  little  hands  hung 
weary,  and  the  little  eyes  looked  out 
heavily  across  the  water. 

And  Life  and  Love  dared  not  look 
into  each  other's  eyes,  dared  not  say, 
"  What  ails  our  darling  .-*  "  Each  heart 
whispered  to  itself,  *'  It  is  nothing,  it  is 
nothing,  to-morrow  it  will  laugh  out 
clear."  But  to-morrow  and  to-morrow 
came.  They  journeyed  on,  and  the 
child  played  beside  them,  but  heavily, 
more  heavily. 

One  day  Life  and  Love  lay  down  to 


i6  THE  LOsi JOY. 

sleep ;  and  when  they  awoke,  it  was 
gone :  only,  near  them,  on  the  grass, 
sat  a  little  stranger,  with  wide-open 
eyes,  very  soft  and  sad.  Neither 
noticed  it ;  but  they  walked  apart, 
weeping  bitterly,  "Oh,  our  Joy!  our 
lost  Joy !  shall  we  see  you  no  more 
for  ever  ?  " 

The  little  soft  and  sad-eyed  stranger 
slipped  a  hand  into  one  hand  of  each, 
and  drew  them  closer,  and  Life  and 
Love  walked  on  with  it  between  them. 
And  when  Life  looked  down  in  anguish, 
she  saw  her  tears  reflected  in  its  soft 
eyes.  And  when  Love,  mad  with  pain, 
cried  out,  "  I  am  weary,  I  am  weary !  I 
can  journey  no  further.  The  light  is  all 
behind,  the  dark  is  all  before,"  a  little 
rosy  finger  pointed  where  the  sunlight 
lay  upon  the  hill-sides.  Always  its  large 
eyes  were  sad  and  thoughtful :  always  the 
little  brave  mouth  was  smiling  quietly. 


4nr- 


THE  LOST  JOY.  17 

When  on  the  sharp  stones  Life  cut 
her  feet,  he  wiped  the  blood  upon  his 
garments,  and  kissed  the  wounded  feet 
with  his  Httle  hps.  When  in  the  desert 
Love  lay  down  faint  (for  Love  itself 
grows  faint),  he  ran  over  the  hot  sand 
with  his  little  naked  feet,  and  even  there 
in  the  desert  found  water  in  the  holes  in 
the  rocks  to  moisten  Love's  lips  with. 
He  was  no  burden — he  never  weighted 
them ;  he  only  helped  them  forward  on 
their  journey. 

When  they  came  to  the  dark  ravine 
where  the  icicles  hang  from  the  rocks — 
for  Love  and  Life  must  pass  through 
strange  drear  places — there,  where  all  is 
cold,  and  the  snow  lies  thick,  he  took 
their  freezing  hands  and  held  them 
against  his  beating  little  heart,  and 
warmed  them — and  softly  he  drew  them 
on  and  on. 

And  when  they  came  beyond,  into  the 


1 8  THE  LOST  JOY. 

land  of  sunshine  and  flowers,  strangely 
the  great  eyes  lit  up,  and  dimples  broke 
out  upon  the  face.  Brightly  laughing, 
it  ran  over  the  soft  grass ;  gathered 
honey  from  the  hollow  tree,  and  brought 
it  them  on  the  palm  of  its  hand  ;  carried 
them  water  in  the  leaves  of  the  lily,  and 
gathered  flowers  and  wreathed  them 
round  their  heads,  softly  laughing  all 
the  while.  He  touched  them  as  their 
Joy  had  touched  them,  but  his  fingers 
clung  more  tenderly. 

So  they  wandered  on,  through  the 
dark  lands  and  the  light,  always  with 
that  little  brave  smiling  one  between 
them.  Sometimes  they  remembered 
that  first  radiant  Joy,  and  whispered 
to  themselves,  "  Oh !  could  we  but 
find  him  also  !  " 

At  last  they  came  to  where  Reflection 
sits  ;  that  strange  old  woman  who  has 
always  one  elbow  on  her  knee,  and  her 


THE  LOST  JOY.  19 

chin  in  her  hand,  and  who  steals  light 
out  of  the  past  to  shed  it  on  the  future. 

And  Life  and  Love  cried  out,  *'  O 
wise  one !  tell  us  :  when  first  we  met, 
a  lovely  radiant  thing  belonged  to  us — ■ 
gladness  without  a  tear,  sunshine  with- 
out a  shade.  Oh  !  how  did  we  sin  that 
we  lost  it  ?  Where  shall  we  go  that  we 
may  find  it  ?  " 

And  she,  the  wise  old  woman,  an- 
swered, "  To  have  it  back,  will  you 
give  up  that  which  walks  beside  you 
now  }  " 

And  in  agony  Love  and  Life  cried, 
"No!" 

"  Give  up  this  ! "  said  Life.  "  When 
the  thorns  have  pierced  me,  who  will 
suck  the  poison  out  ?  When  my  head 
throbs,  who  will  lay  his  tiny  hands  upon 
it  and  still  the  beating  ?  In  the  cold 
and  the  dark,  who  will  warm  my  freezing 
heart  ?  " 


THE  LOST  JOY. 


And  Love  cried  out,  "  Better  let  me 
die !  Without  Joy  I  can  live  ;  without 
this  I  cannot.  Let  me  rather  die,  not 
lose  it!" 

And  the  wise  old  woman  answered, 
"  O  fools  and  blind !  What  you  once  had 
is  that  which  you  have  now !  When 
Love  and  Life  first  meet,  a  radiant 
thing  is  born,  without  a  shade.  When 
the  roads  begin  to  roughen,  when  the 
shades  begin  to  darken,  when  the  days 
are  hard,  and  the  nights  cold  and  long — 
then  it  begins  to  change.  Love  and 
Life  will  not  see  it,  will  not  know  it — 
till  one  day  they  start  up  suddenly, 
crying,  '  O  God !  O  God  !  we  have  lost 
it !  Where  is  it  ? '  They  do  not  un- 
derstand that  they  could  not  carry  the 
laughing  thing  unchanged  into  the  desert, 
and  the  frost,  and  the  snow.  They  do 
not  know  that  what  walks  beside  them 
still  is  the  Joy  grown  older.    The  grave, 


THE  LOST  JOY. 


sweet,  tender  thing — warm  in  the  coldest 
snows,  brave  in  the  dreariest  deserts — 
its  name  is  Sympathy ;  it  is  the  Perfect 
Lx)ve." 


South  Africa. 


THE  HUNTER. 


THE  HUNTER. 


1 

N  certain  valleys  there  was 
a  hunter.  Day  by  day  he 
went  to  hunt  for  wild-fowl  in 
the  woods  ;  and  it  chanced  • 
that  once  he  stood  on  the  shores  of  a 
large  lake.  While  he  stood  waiting  in 
the  rushes  for  the  coming  of  the  birds,  a 
great  shadow  fell  on  him,  and  in  the 
water  he  saw  a  reflection.  He  looked 
up  to  the  sky ;  but  the  thing  was  gone. 
Then  a  burning  desire  came  over  him  to 
see  once  again  that  reflection  in  the 
water,  and  all  day  he  watched  and 
waited  ;  but  night  came,  and  it  had  not 


26  THE  HUNTER. 

returned.  Then  he  went  home  with  his 
empty  bag,  moody  and  silent.  His 
comrades  came  questioning  about  .him 
to  know  the  reason,  but  he  answered 
them  nothing ;  he  sat  alone  and  brooded. 
Then  his  friend  came  to  him,  and  to 
him  he  spoke. 

"  I  have  seen  to-day,"  he  said,  "that 
which  I  never  saw  before — a  vast  white 
bird,  with  silver  wings  outstretched, 
sailing  in  the  everlasting  blue.  And 
now  it  is  as  though  a  great  fire  burnt 
within  my  breast.  It  was  but  a  sheen, 
a  shimmer,  a  reflection  in  the  water ; 
but  now  I  desire  nothing  more  on  earth 
than  to  hold  her." 

His  friend  laughed. 

"It  was  but  a  beam  playing  on  the 
water,  or  the  shadow  of  your  own  head. 
To-morrow  you  will  forget  her,"  he  said. 

But  to-morrow,  and  to-morrow,  and 
to-morrow  the  hunter  walked  alone.    He 


THE  HUNTER.  27 

sought  in  the  forest  and  in  the  woods, 
by  the  lakes  and  among  the  rushes,  but 
he  could  not  find  her.  He  shot  no 
more  wild-fowl  ;  what  were  they  to 
him  ? 

"  What  ails  him  ?  "  said  his  comrades. 

"  He  is  mad,"  said  one. 

"  No,  but  he  is  worse,"  said  another  ; 
"  he  would  see  that  which  none  of  us 
have  seen,  and  make  himself  a  wonder." 

"  Come,  let  us  forswear  his  company," 
said  all. 

So  the  hunter  walked  alone. 

One  night,  as  he  wandered  in  the 
shade,  very  heart-sore  and  weeping,  an 
old  man  stood  before  him,  grander  and 
taller  than  the  sons  of  men. 

"Who  are  you  ?  "  asked  the  hunter. 

"  I  am  Wisdom,"  answered  the  old 
man  ;  "  but  some  men  called  me  Know- 
ledge. All  my  life  I  have  grown  in 
these  valleys ;  but  no  man  sees  me  till 


28  T^E  HUNTER. 

he  has  sorrowed  much.  The  eyes  must 
be  washed  with  tears  that  are  to  behold 
me ;  and,  according  as  a  man  has  suf- 
fered, I  speak." 

And  the  hunter  cried — 

"  Oh,  you  who  have  lived  here  so 
long,  tell  me,  what  is  that  great  wild 
bird  I  have  seen  sailing  in  the  blue  .-* 
They  would  have  me  believe  she  is 
a  dream  ;  the  shadow  of  my  own  head." 

The  old  man  smiled. 

"  Her  name  is  Truth.  He  who  has 
once  seen  her  never  rests  again.  Till 
death  he  desires  her." 

And  the  hunter  cried — 

"  Oh,  tell  me  where  I  may  find 
her." 

But  the  man  said, 

"  You  have  not  suffered  enough,"  and 
went 

Then  the  hunter  took  from  his  breast 
the  shuttle  of  Imagination,  and  wound 


THE  HUNTER. 


on  it  the  thread  of  his  Wishes ;  and  all 
night  he  sat  and  wove  a  net. 

In  the  morning  he  spread  the  golden 
net  open  on  the  ground,  and  into  it  he 
threw  a  few  grains  of  credulity,  which 
his  father  had  left  him,  and  which  he 
kept  in  his  breast-pocket.  They  were 
like  white  puff-balls,  and  when  you  trod 
on  them  a  brown  dust  flew  out  Then 
he  sat  by  to  see  what  would  happen. 
The  first  that  came  into  the  net  was 
a  snow-white  bird,  with  dove's  eyes,  and 
he  sang  a  beautiful  song — "  A  human- 
God  !  a  human-God  !  a  human-God  I  "  it 
sang.  The  second  that  came  was  black 
and  mystical,  with  dark,  lovely  eyes, 
that  looked  into  the  depths  of  your  soul, 
and  he  sang  only  this — "  Immortality !  " 

And  the  hunter  took  them  both  in  his 
arms,  for  he  said — 

"They  are  surely  of  the  beautiful 
family  of  Truth." 


30  THE  HUNTER. 

Then  came  another,  green  and  gold, 
who  sang  in  a  shrill  voice,  like  one  cry- 
ing  in  the  market-place, — "  Reward  after 
Death  !    Reward  after  Death  ! " 

And  he  said — 

"  You  are  not  so  fair ;  but  you  are 
fair  too,"  and  he  took  it. 

And  others  came,  brightly  coloured, 
singing  pleasant  songs,  till  all  the  grains 
were  finished.  And  the  hunter  gathered 
all  his  birds  together,  and  built  a  strong 
iron  cage  called  a  new  creed,  and  put  all 
his  birds  in  it. 

Then  the  people  came  about  dancing 
and  singing. 

"  Oh,  happy  hunter ! "  they  cried. 
"  Oh,  wonderful  man !  Oh,  delightful 
birds  !    Oh,  lovely  songs  ! " 

No  one  asked  where  the  birds  had 
come  from,  nor  how  they  had  been 
caught ;  but  they  danced  and  sang 
before  them.  And  the  hunter  too  was 
glad,  for  he  said — 


THE  HUNTER.  31 

"Surely  Truth  is  among  them.  In 
time  she  will  moult  her  feathers,  and  I 
shall  see  her  snow-white  form." 

But  the  time  passed,  and  the  people 
sang  and  danced  ;  but  the  hunter's  heart 
grew  heavy.  He  crept  alone,  as  of 
old,  to  weep ;  the  terrible  desire  had 
awakened  again  in  his  breast.  One  day, 
as  he  sat  alone  weeping,  it  chanced  that 
Wisdom  met  him.  He  told  the  old  man 
what  he  had  done. 

And  Wisdom  smiled  sadly. 

"  Many  men,"  he  said,  "  have  spread 
that  net  for  Truth  ;  but  they  have  never 
found  her.  On  the  grains  of  credulity 
she  will  not  feed  ;  in  the  net  of  wishes 
her  feet  cannot  be  held ;  in  the  air  of 
these  valleys  she  will  not  breathe.  The 
birds  you  have  caught  are  of  the  brood 
of  Lies.  Lovely  and  beautiful,  but  still 
lies  ;  Truth  knows  them  not." 

And  the  hunter  cried  out  in  bitterness — 


32  THE  HUNTER. 

"And  must  I  then  sit  still  to  be 
devoured  of  this  great  burning  ?  " 

And  the  old  man  said — 

"  Listen,  and  in  that  you  have  suffered 
much  and  wept  much,  I  will  tell  you 
what  I  know.  He  who  sets  out  to 
search  for  Truth  must  leave  these  val- 
leys of  superstition  for  ever,  taking  with 
him  not  one  shred  that  has  belonged  to 
them.  Alone  he  must  wander  down 
into  the  Land  of  Absolute  Negation 
and  Denial ;  he  must  abide  there ;  he 
must  resist  temptation ;  when  the  light 
breaks  he  must  arise  and  follow  it  into 
the  country  of  dry  sunshine.  The 
mountains  of  stern  reality  will  rise 
before  him  ;  he  must  climb  them  ; 
beyond  them  lies  Truth." 

"  And  he  will  hold  her  fast !  he  will 
hold  her  in  his  hands ! "  the  hunter 
cried. 

Wisdom  shook  his  head. 


THE  HUNTER.  33 

"  He  will  never  see  her,  never  hold 
her.     The  time  is  not  yet." 

"Then  there  is  no  hope.'*"  cried  the 
hunter. 

"  There  is  this,"  said  Wisdom.  "  Some 
men  have  climbed  on  those  mountains  ; 
circle  above  circle  of  bare  rock  they 
have  scaled  ;  and,  wandering  there,  in 
those  high  regions,  some  have  chanced 
to  pick  up  on  the  ground,  one  white, 
silver  feather  dropped  from  the  wing  of 
Truth.  And  it  shall  come  to  pass,"  said 
the  old  man,  raising  himself  prophetically 
and  pointing  with  his  finger  to  the  sky, 
"  it  shall  come  to  pass,  that,  when 
enouofh  of  those  silver  feathers  shall 
have  been  gathered  by  the  hands  of 
men,  and  shall  have  been  woven  into  a 
cord,  and  the  cord  into  a  net,  that  in 
that  net  Truth  may  be  captured.  Noth- 
inz  but  Truth  can  hold  Truth. 

The  hunter  arose.  "  I  will  go,"  he  said. 
3 


34  THE  HUNTER. 

But  Wisdom  detained  him. 

"  Mark  you  well — who  leaves  these 
valleys  never  returns  to  them.  Though 
he  should  weep  tears  of  blood  seven 
days  and  nights  upon  the  confines,  he 
can  never  put  his  foot  across  them. 
Left  —  they  are  left  for  ever.  Upon 
the  road  which  you  would  travel  there 
is  no  reward  offered.  Who  goes,  goes 
freely — for  the  great  love  that  is  in  him. 
The  work  is  his  reward." 

"  I  go,"  said  the  hunter  ;  "  but  upon 
the  mountains,  tell  me,  which  path  shall 
I  take  ?  " 

"  I  am  the  child  of  The-Accumulated- 
Knowledge-of-Ages,"  said  the  man  ;  "  I 
can  walk  only  where  many  men  have 
trodden.  On  these  mountains  few  feet 
have  passed ;  each  man  strikes  out  a 
path  for  himself.  He  goes  at  his  own 
peril :  my  voice  he  hears  no  more.  I 
may  follow  after  him,  but  I  cannot  go 
before  him." 


THE  HUNTER.  35 

Then  Knowledge  vanished. 

And  the  hunter  turned.  He  went  to 
his  cage,  and  with  his  hands  broke  down 
the  bars,  and  the  jagged  iron  tore  his 
flesh.  It  is  sometimes  easier  to  build 
than  to  break. 

One  by  one  he  took  his  plumed  birds 
and  let  them  fly.  But,  when  he  came 
to  his  dark-plumed  bird,  he  held  it,  and 
looked  into  its  beautiful  eyes,  and  the 
bird  uttered  its  low  deep  cry — "  Im- 
mortality ! " 

And  he  said  quickly,  "  I  cannot  part 
with  it.  It  is  not  heavy ;  it  eats  no 
food.  I  will  hide  it  in  my  breast :  I 
will  take  it  with  me."  And  he  buried 
it  there,  and  covered  it  over  with  his 
cloak. 

But  the  thing  he  had  hidden  grew 
heavier,  heavier,  heavier — till  it  lay  on 
his  breast  like  lead.  He  could  not  move 
with    it.       He    could    not   leave    those 


36  THE  HUNTER, 

valleys  with  it.  Then  again  he  took 
it  out  and  looked  at  it. 

'•  Oh,  my  beautiful,  my  heart's  own  !  " 
he  cried,  "may  I  not  keep  you?" 

He  opened  his  hands  sadly. 

"  Go,"  he  said.  "It  may  happen  that 
in  Truth's  song  one  note  is  like  to  yours  ; 
but  /  shall  never  hear  it." 

Sadly  he  opened  his  hand,  and  the 
bird  flew  from  him  for  ever. 

Then  from  the  shuttle  of  Imagination 
he  took  the  thread  of  his  wishes,  and 
threw  it  on  the  ground  ;  and  the  empty 
shuttle  he  put  into  his  breast,  for  the 
thread  was  made  in  those  valleys,  but 
the  shuttle  came  from  an  unknown 
country.  He  turned  to  go,  but  now  the 
people  came  about  him,  howling. 

**  Fool,  hound,  demented  lunatic !  " 
they  cried.  "  How  dared  you  break 
your  cage  and  let  the  birds  fly  ? " 

The  hunter  spoke ;  but  they  would 
not  hear  him. 


THE  HUNTER.  37 

"  Truth !  who  is  she  ?  Can  you  eat 
her  ?  can  you  drink  her  ?  Who  has 
ever  seen  her  ?  Your  birds  were  real : 
all  could  hear  them  sing !  Oh,  fool ! 
vile  reptile  !  atheist !  "  they  cried,  "  you 
pollute  the  air." 

"  Come,  let  us  take  up  stones  and 
stone  him,"  cried  some. 

"  What  affair  is  it  of  ours  ? "  said 
others.  "Let  the  idiot  go;"  and  went 
away.  But  the  rest  gathered  up  stones 
and  mud  and  threw  at  him.  At  last, 
when  he  was  bruised  and  cut,  the  hunter 
crept  away  into  the  woods.  And  it  was 
evening  about  him. 

He  wandered  on  and  on,  and  the 
shade  grew  deeper.  He  was  on 
the  borders  now  of  the  land  where 
it  is  always  night.  Then  he  stepped 
into  it,  and  there  was  no  light  there. 
With  his  hands  he  groped  ;  but 
each    branch    as    he    touched    it    broke 


38  THE  HUNTER. 

off,  and  the  earth  was  covered  with 
cinders.  At  every  step  his  foot  sank 
in,  and  a  fine  cloud  of  impalpable  ashes 
flew  up  into  his  face  ;  and  it  was  dark. 
So  he  sat  down  upon  a  stone  and 
buried  his  face  in  his  hands,  to  wait 
in  that  Land  of  Negation  and  Denial 
till  the  light  came. 

And  it  was  night  in  his  heart  also. 

Then  from  the  marshes  to  his  right 
and  left  cold  mists  arose  and  closed 
about  him.  A  fine,  imperceptible  rain 
fell  in  the  dark,  and  great  drops  gathered 
on  his  hair  and  clothes.  His  heart  beat 
slowly,  and  a  numbness  crept  through 
all  his  limbs.  Then,  looking  up,  two 
merry  wisp  lights  came  dancing.  He 
lifted  his  head  to  look  at  them.  Nearer, 
nearer  they  came.  So  warm,  so  bright, 
they  danced  like  stars  of  fire.  They 
stood  before  him  at  last.  From  the 
centre   of    the   radiating   flame   in   one 


THE  HUNTER.  39 


looked  out  a  woman's  face,  laughing, 
dimpled,  with  streaming  yellow  hair. 
In  the  centre  of  the  other  were  merry- 
laughing  ripples,  like  the  bubbles  on 
a  glass  of  wine.  They  danced  before 
him. 

"  Who  are  you,"  asked  the  hunter, 
"  who  alone  come  to  me  in  my  solitude 
and  darkness  ?  " 

**  We  are  the  twins  Sensuality,"  they 
cried.  "  Our  father's  name  is  Human- 
Nature,  and  our  mother's  name  is 
Excess.  We  are  as  old  as  the  hills 
and  rivers,  as  old  as  the  first  man  ;  but 
we  never  die,"  they  laughed. 

"  Oh,  let  me  wrap  my  arms  about 
you ! "  cried  the  first ;  "  they  are  soft 
and  warm.  Your  heart  is  frozen  now,  but 
I  will  make  it  beat.     Oh,  come  to  me  !  " 

"  I  will  pour  my  hot  life  into  you," 
said  the  second ;  "  your  brain  is  numb, 
and  your  limbs  are  dead  now ;  but  they 


40  THE  HUNTER. 

shall  live  with  a  fierce  free  life.  Oh, 
let  me  pour  it  in  ! " 

"  Oh,  follow  us,"  they  cried,  *'  and 
live  with  us.  Nobler  hearts  than  yours 
have  sat  here  in  this  darkness  to  wait, 
and  they  have  come  to  us  and  we  to 
them ;  and  they  have  never  left  us, 
never.  All  else  is  a  delusion,  but  we 
are  real,  we  are  real.  Truth  is  a 
shadow  ;  the  valleys  of  superstition  are 
a  farce ;  the  earth  is  of  ashes,  the  trees 
all  rotten  ;  but  we — feel  us — we  live ! 
You  cannot  doubt  us.  Feel  us,  how 
warm  we  are !  Oh,  come  to  us !  Come 
with  us ! " 

Nearer  and  nearer  round  his  head 
they  hovered,  and  the  cold  drops  melted 
on  his  forehead.  The  bright  light  shot 
into  his  eyes,  dazzling  him,  and  the 
frozen  blood  began  to  run.  And  he 
said — 

"  Yes ;  why  should  I  die  here  in  this 


THE  HUNTER.  41 

awful  darkness  ?  They  are  warm,  they 
melt  my  frozen  blood  ! "  and  he  stretched 
out  his  hands  to  take  them. 

Then  in  a  moment  there  arose  before 
him  the  image  of  the  thing  he  had 
loved,  and  his  hand  dropped  to  his 
side. 

"  Oh,  come  to  us  ! "  they  cried. 

But  he  buried  his  face. 

"  You  dazzle  my  eyes,"  he  cried, 
"  you  make  my  heart  warm  ;  but  you 
cannot  give  me  what  I  desire.  I  will 
wait  here — wait  till  I  die.     Go ! " 

He  covered  his  face  with  his  hands 
and  would  not  listen ;  and  when  he 
looked  up  again  they  were  two  twink- 
ling stars,  that  vanished  in  the  distance. 

And  the  long,  long  night  rolled 
on. 

All  who  leave  the  valley  of  supersti- 
tion pass  through  that  dark  land ;  but 
some  go  through  it  in  a  few  days,  some 


42  THE  HUNTER. 

linger  there  for  months,  some  for  years, 
and  some  die  there. 

At  last  for  the  hunter  a  faint  light 
played  along  the  horizon,  and  he  rose 
to  follow  it ;  and  he  reached  that  light 
at  last,  and  stepped  into  the  broad 
sunshine.  Then  before  him  rose  the 
almighty  mountains  of  Dry-facts  and 
Realities,  The  clear  sunshine  played 
on  them,  and  the  tops  were  lost  in 
the  clouds.  At  the  foot  many  paths 
ran  up.  An  exultant  cry  burst  from 
the  hunter.  He  chose  the  straightest 
and  began  to  climb ;  and  the  rocks  and 
ridges  resounded  with  his  song.  They 
had  exaggerated  ;  after  all,  it  was  not 
so  high,  nor  was  the  road  so  steep! 
A  few  days,  a  few  weeks,  a  few  months 
at  most,  and  then  the  top !  Not  one 
feather  only  would  he  pick  up ;  he 
would  gather  all  that  other  men  had 
found — weave   the  net — capture  Truth 


THE  HUNTER.  43 

— hold    her   fast — touch    her   with    his 
hands — clasp  her! 

He  laughed  in  the  merry  sunshine, 
and  sang  loud.  Victory  was  very  near. 
Nevertheless,  after  a  while  the  path 
grew  steeper.  He  needed  all  his  breath 
for  climbing,  and  the  singing  died  away. 
On  the  right  and  left  rose  huge  rocks, 
devoid  of  lichen  or  moss,  and  in  the 
lava-like  earth  chasms  yawned.  Here 
and  there  he  saw  a  sheen  of  white 
bones.  Now  too  the  path  began  to 
grow  less  and  less  marked ;  then  it 
became  a  mere  trace,  with  a  foot-mark 
here  and  there ;  then  it  ceased  alto- 
gether. He  sang  no  more,  but  struck 
forth  a  path  for  himself,  until  he  reached 
a  mighty  wall  of  rock,  smooth  and 
without  break,  stretching  as  far  as  the 
eye  could  see.  "  I  will  rear  a  stair 
against  it ;  and,  once  this  wall  climbed, 
I    shall     be    almost     there,"     he    said 


44  THE  HUNTER. 

bravely  ;  and  worked.  With  his  shuttle 
of  imagination  he  dug  out  stones  ;  but 
half  of  them  would  not  fit,  and  half  a 
month's  work  would  roll  down  because 
those  below  were  ill  chosen.  But  the 
hunter  worked  on,  saying  always  to 
to  himself,  "  Once  this  wall  climbed, 
I  shall  be  almost  there.  This  great 
work  ended ! " 

At  last  he  came  out  upon  the  top, 
and  he  looked  about  him.  Far  below 
rolled  the  white  mist  over  the  valleys 
of  superstition,  and  above  him  towered 
the  mountains.  They  had  seemed  low 
before  ;  they  were  of  an  immeasurable 
height  now,  from  crown  to  foundation 
surrounded  by  walls  of  rock,  that  rose 
tier  above  tier  in  mighty  circles.  Upon 
them  played  the  eternal  sunshine.  He 
uttered  a  wild  cry.  He  bowed  himself 
on  to  the  earth,  and  when  he  rose  his 
face  was  white.     In  absolute  silence  he 


THE  HUNTER.  45 

walked  on.  He  was  very  silent  now. 
In  those  high  regions  the  rarefied  air 
is  hard  to  breathe  by  those  born  in  the 
valleys  ;  every  breath  he  drew  hurt  him, 
and  the  blood  oozed  out  from  the  tips 
of  his  fingers.  Before  the  next  wall  of 
rock  he  began  to  work.  The  height 
of  this  seemed  infinite,  and  he  said 
nothing.  The  sound  of  his  tool  rang 
night  and  day  upon  the  iron  rocks  into 
which  he  cut  steps.  Years  passed  over 
him,  yet  he  worked  on ;  but  the  wall 
towered  up  always  above  him  to  heaven. 
Sometimes  he  prayed  that  a  litde  moss 
or  lichen  might  spring  up  on  those  bare 
walls  to  be  a  companion  to  him ;  but 
it  never  came. 

And  the  years  rolled  on :  he  counted 
them  by  the  steps  he  had  cut — a  few 
for  a  year — only  a  few.  He  sang  no 
more  ;  he  said  no  more,  "  I  will  do  this 
or  that " — he  only  worked.    And  at  night, 


46  THE  HUNTER. 

when  the  twilight  settled  down,  there 
looked  out  at  him  from  the  holes  and 
crevices  in  the  rocks  strange  wild  faces. 

"  Stop  your  work,  you  lonely  man, 
and  speak  to  us,"  they  cried. 

"My  salvation  is  in  work.  If  I 
should  stop  but  for  one  moment  you 
would  creep  down  upon  me,"  he  replied. 
And  they  put  out  their  long  necks 
further. 

"  Look  down  into  the  crevice  at  your 
feet,"  they  said.  "  See  what  lie  there — 
white  bones !  As  brave  and  strong  a 
man  as  you  climbed  to  these  rocks. 
And  he  looked  up.  He  saw  there  was 
no  use  in  striving ;  he  would  never  hold 
Truth,  never  see  her,  never  find  her. 
So  he  lay  down  here,  for  he  was  very 
tired.  He  went  to  sleep  for  ever.  He 
put  himself  to  sleep.  Sleep  is  very 
tranquil.  You  are  not  lonely  when 
you  are  asleep,  neither  do  your  hands 


THE  HUNTER.  47 

ache,  nor  your  heart."  And  the  hunter 
laughed  between  his  teeth. 

"  Have  I  torn  from  my  heart  all  that 
was  dearest ;  have  I  wandered  alone 
in  the  land  of  night ;  have  I  resisted 
temptation ;  have  I  dwelt  where  the 
voice  of  my  kind  is  never  heard,  and 
laboured  alone,  to  lie  down  and  be  food 
for  you,  ye  harpies  ?  " 

He  laughed  fiercely ;  and  the  Echoes 
of  Despair  slunk  away,  for  the  laugh 
of  a  brave,  strong  heart  is  as  a  death- 
blow to  them. 

Nevertheless  they  crept  out  again 
and  looked  at  him. 

"  Do  you  know  that  your  hair  is 
white  ? "  they  said,  "  that  your  hands 
begin  to  tremble  like  a  child's  ?  Do 
you  see  that  the  point  of  your  shuttle 
is  gone? — it  is  cracked  already.  If 
you  should  ever  climb  this  stair,"  they 
said,  "it  will  be  your  last.  You  will 
never  climb  another." 


48  THE  HUNTER. 


And  he  answered,  *' I  know  it  f'  and 
worked  on. 

The  old,  thin  hands  cut  the  stones 
ill  and  jaggedly,  for  the  fingers  were 
stiff  and  bent.  The  beauty  and  the 
strength  of  the  man  was  gone. 

At  last,  an  old,  wizened,  shrunken 
face  looked  out  above  the  rocks.  It 
saw  the  eternal  mountains  rise  with 
walls  to  the  white  clouds ;  but  its  work 
was  done. 

The  old  hunter  folded  his  tired  hands 
and  lay  down  by  the  precipice  where 
he  had  worked  away  his  life.  It  was 
the  sleeping  time  at  last.  Below  him 
over  the  valleys  rolled  the  thick  white 
mist.  Once  it  broke ;  and  through  the 
gap  the  dying  eyes  looked  down  on 
the  trees  and  fields  of  their  childhood. 
From  afar  seemed  borne  to  him  the 
cry  of  his  own  wild  birds,  and  he  heard 
the   noise   of    people   singing   as    they 


THE  HUNTER.  49 

danced.  And  he  thought  he  heard 
among  them  the  voices  of  his  old  com- 
rades ;  and  he  saw  far  off  the  sunlight 
shine  on  his  early  home.  And  great 
tears  gathered  in  the  hunter's  eyes. 

"  Ah !  they  who  die  there  do  not 
die  alone,"  he  cried. 

Then  the  mists  rolled  together  again  ; 
and  he  turned  his  eyes  away. 

"I  have  sought."  he  said,  "for  long 
years  I  have  laboured ;  but  I  have  not 
found  her.  I  have  not  rested,  I  have 
not  repined,  and  I  have  not  seen  her  ; 
now  my  strength  is  gone.  Where  I 
lie  down  worn  out,  other  men  will 
stand,  young  and  fresh.  By  the  steps 
that  I  have  cut  they  will  climb ;  by 
the  stairs  that  I  have  built,  they  will 
mount.  They  will  never  know  the 
name  of  the  man  who  made  them. 
At  the  clumsy  work  they  will  laugh  ; 
when  the  stones  roll  they  will  curse 
4 


50  THE  HUNTER. 

me.  But  they  will  mount,  and  on  my 
work ;  they  will  climb,  and  by  my  stair ! 
They  will  find  her,  and  through  m.e  ! 
And  no  man  liveth  to  himself,  and 
no  man  dieth  to  himself." 

The  tears  rolled  from  beneath  the 
shrivelled  eyelids.  If  Truth  had  ap- 
peared above  him  in  the  clouds  now 
he  could  not  have  seen  her,  the  mist 
of  death  was  in  his  eyes. 

"  My  soul  hears  their  glad  step 
coming,"  he  said ;  "  and  they  shall 
mount !  they  shall  mount !  "  He  raised 
his  shrivelled  hand  to  his  eyes. 

Then  slowly  from  the  white  sky 
above,  through  the  still  air,  came  some- 
thing falling,  falling,  falling.  Softly  it 
fluttered  down,  and  dropped  on  to  the 
breast  of  the  dying  man.  He  felt  it 
with  his  hands.  It  was  a  feather.  He 
died  holding  it. 


THE  GARDENS  OF  PLEASURE. 


THE  GARDENS  OF  PLEASURE. 


HE  wilked  upon  the  beds, 
and  the  sweet  rich  scent 
arose  ;  and  she  gathered  her 
hands  full  of  flowers.  Then 
Duty,  with  his  white  clear  features,  came 
and  looked  at  her.  Then  she  ceased 
from  gathering,  but  she  walked  away 
among  the  flowers,  smiling,  and  with  her 
hands  full. 

Then  Duty,  with  his  still  white  face, 
came  again,  and  looked  at  her ;  but  she, 
she  turned  her  head  away  from  him. 
At  last  she  saw  his  face,  and  she  drop- 


54         THE  GARDENS  OF  PLEASURE. 

ped  tho  fairest  of  the  flowers  she  had 
held,  and  walked  silently  away. 

Then  again  he  came  to  her.  And  she 
moaned,  and  bent  her  head  low,  and 
turned  to  the  gate.  But  as  she  went 
out  she  looked  back  at  the  sunlight  on 
the  faces  of  the  flowers,  and  wept  in 
anguish.  Then  she  went  out,  and  it 
shut  behind  her  for  ever ;  but  still  in  her 
hand  she  held  of  the  buds  she  had 
gathered,  and  the  scent  was  very  sweet 
in  the  lonely  desert. 

But  he  followed  her.  Once  more  he 
stood  before  her  with  his  still,  white, 
death-like  face.  And  she  knew  what 
he  had  come  for  :  she  unbent  the  fingers, 
and  let  the  flowers  drop  out,  the  flowers 
she  had  loved  so,  and  walked  on  without 
them,  with  dry,  aching  eyes.  Then  for 
the  last  time  he  came.  And  she  showed 
him  her  empty  hands,  the  hands  that 
held  nothing  now.     But  still  he  looked. 


THE  GARDENS  OF  PLEASURE.         55 

Then  at  length  she  opened  her  bosom 
and  took  out  of  it  one  small  flower  she 
had  hidden  there,  and  laid  it  on  the 
sand.  She  had  nothing  more  to  give 
now,  and  she  wandered  away,  and  the 
grey  sand  whirled  about  her. 


^^^^fe^ 


IN  A  FAR-OFF  WORLD. 


IN  A  FAR-OFF  WORLD. 


HERE  is  a  world  in  one  of 
the  far-off  stars,  and  things 
do  not  happen  here  as  they 
happen  there. 
In  that  world  were  a  man  and  woman; 
they  had  one  work,  and  they  walked 
together  side  by  side  on  many  days,  and 
were  friends — and  that  is  a  thing  that 
happens  now  and  then  in  this  world 
also. 

But  there  was  something  in  that  star- 
world  that  there  is  not  here.  There 
was  a  thick  wood  :  where  the  trees  grew 


6o  IN  A  FAR-OFF  WORLD. 

closest,  and  the  stems  were  interlocked, 
and  the  summer  sun  never  shone,  there 
stood  a  shrine.  In  the  day  all  was 
quiet,  but  at  night,  when  the  stars  shone 
or  the  moon  glinted  on  the  tree- tops, 
and  all  was  quiet  below,  if  one  crept 
here  quite  alone  and  knelt  on  the  steps 
of  the  stone  altar,  and  uncovering  one's 
breast,  so  wounded  it  that  the  blood  fell 
down  on  the  altar  steps,  then  whatever 
he  who  knelt  there  wished  for  was 
granted  him.  And  all  this  happens, 
as  I  said,  because  it  is  a  far-off  world, 
and  things  often  happen  there  as  they 
do  not  happen  here. 

Now,  the  man  and  woman  walked 
together ;  and  the  woman  wished  well 
to  the  man.  One  night  when  the  moon 
was  shining  so  that  the  leaves  of  all  the 
trees  glinted,  and  the  waves  of  the  sea 
were  silvery,  the  woman  walked  alone 
to  the  forest.     It  was  dark  there ;  the 


IN  A  FAR-OFF  WORLD.  6i 

moonlight  fell  only  in  little  flecks  on  the 
dead  leaves  under  her  feet,  and  the 
branches  were  knotted  tight  overhead. 
Farther  in  it  got  darker,  not  even  a 
fleck  of  moonlight  shone.  Then  she 
came  to  the  shrine ;  she  knelt  down 
before  it  and  prayed ;  there  came  no 
answer.  Then  she  uncovered  her 
breast ;  with  a  sharp  two-edged  stone 
that  lay  there  she  wounded  it.  The 
drops  dripped  slowly  down  on  to  the 
stone,  and  a  voice  cried,  "  What  do  you 
seek  ?  " 

She  answered,  "  There  is  a  man ;  I 
hold  him  nearer  than  anything.  I  would 
give  him  the  best  of  all  blessings." 

The  voice  said,  "  What  is  it  ?  " 

The  girl  said,  "  I  know  not,  but  that 
which  is  most  good  for  him  I  wish  him 
to  have." 

The  voice  said,  "Your  prayer  is 
answered;  he  shall  have  it." 


62  IN  A  FAR-OFF  WORLD. 

Then  she  stood  up.  She  covered  her 
breast  and  held  the  garment  tight  upon 
it  with  her  hand,  and  ran  out  of  the 
forest,  and  the  dead  leaves  fluttered 
under  her  feet.  Out  in  the  moonlight 
the  soft  air  was  blowing,  and  the  sand 
glittered  on  the  beach.  She  ran  along 
the  smooth  shore,  then  suddenly  she 
stood  still.  Out  across  the  water  there 
was  something  moving.  She  shaded 
her  eyes  and  looked.  It  was  a  boat ; 
it  was  sliding  swiftly  over  the  moonlit 
water  out  to  sea.  One  stood  upright  in 
it ;  the  face  the  moonlight  did  not  show, 
but  the  figure  she  knew.  It  was  pass- 
ing swiftly ;  it  seemed  as  if  no  one 
propelled  it ;  the  moonlight's  shimmer 
did  not  let  her  see  clearly,  and  the  boat 
was  far  from  shore,  but  it  seemed  almost 
as  if  there  was  another  figure  sitting  in 
the  stern.  Faster  and  faster  it  glided 
^  over  the  water  away,  away.     She  ran 


IN  A  FAR-OFF  WORLD.  63 

along  the  shore  ;  she  came  no  nearer  it. 
The  garment  she  had  held  closed  flut- 
tered open  ;  she  stretched  out  her  arms, 
and  the  moonlight  shone  on  her  long 
loose  hair. 

Then  a  voice  beside  her  whispered, 
"What  is  it?" 

She  cried,  "  With  my  blood  I  bought 
the  best  of  all  gifts  for  him.  I  have 
come  to  bring  it  him !  He  is  going 
from  me  1 " 

The  voice  whispered  sofdy,  "  Your 
prayer  was  answered.  It  has  been  given 
him." 

She  cried,  "  What  is  it  >  " 

The  voice  answered,  "It  is  that  he 
might  leave  you." 

The  girl  stood  still. 

Far  out  at  sea  the  boat  was  lost  to 
sight  beyond  the  moonlight  sheen. 

The  voice  spoke  softly,  "Art  thou 
contented  }  " 


64  IN  A  FAR-OFF  WORLD. 

She  said,  "  I  am  contented." 
At  her  feet  the  waves  broke  in  long 
ripples  softly  on  the  shore. 


THREE  DREAMS  IN  A  DESERl. 


^^^^^ 

^^^^ 

^^^^ 

^^^ 

^^m 

^^8 

S 

THREE  DREAMS  IN  A    DESERT. 

UNDER   A    MIMOSA-TREE. 

S  I  travelled  across  an  African 
plain  the  sun  shone  down 
hotly.  Then  I  drew  my 
horse  up  under  a  mimosa- 
tree,  and  I  took  the  saddle  from  him 
and  left  him  to  feed  among  the  parched 
bushes.  And  all  to  right  and  to  left 
stretched  the  brown  earth.  And  I  sat 
down  under  the  tree,  because  the  heat 
beat  fiercely,  and  all  along  the  horizon 
the  air  throbbed.  And  after  a  while  a 
heavy  drowsiness  came  over  me,  and  I 
laid  my  head  down  against  my  saddle, 


68        THREE  DREAMS  IN  A  DESERT. 

and   I   fell    asleep    there.     And,   in    my 
sleep,  I  had  a  curious  dream. 

I  thought  I  stood  on  the  border  of  a 
great  desert,  and  the  sand  blew  about 
everywhere.  And  I  thought  I  saw  two 
great  figures  like  beasts  of  burden  of 
the  desert,  and  one  lay  upon  the  sand 
with  its  neck  stretched  out,  and  one 
stood  by  it.  And  I  looked  curiously  at 
the  one  that  lay  upon  the  ground,  for  it 
had  a  great  burden  on  its  back,  and  the 
sand  was  thick  about  it,  so  that  it 
seemed  to  have  piled  over  it  for 
centuries. 

And  I  looked  very  curiously  at  it. 
And  there  stood  one  beside  me  watch- 
ing. And  I  said  to  him,  "  What  is  this 
huge  creature  who  lies  here  on  the  sand  .-*" 

And  he  said,  *'  This  is  woman  ;  she 
that  bears  men  in  her  body." 

And   I  said,  "  Why  does  she  lie  here 


THREE  DREAMS  IN  A  DESERT.       69 

motionless   with   the   sand   piled  round 
her?" 

And  he  answered,  "  Listen,  I  will  tell 
you  !  Ages  and  ages  long  she  has  lain 
here,  and  the  wind  has  blown  over  her. 
The  oldest,  oldest,  oldest  man  living  has 
never  seen  her  move  :  the  oldest,  oldest 
book  records  that  she  lay  here  then,  as 
she  lies  here  now,  with  the  sand  about 
her.  But  listen  !  Older  than  the  oldest 
book,  older  than  the  oldest  recorded 
memory  of  man,  on  the  Rocks  of 
Language,  on  the  hard-baked  clay  of 
Ancient  Customs,  now  crumbling  to 
decay,  are  found  the  marks  of  her 
footsteps !  Side  by  side  with  his  who 
stands  beside  her  you  may  trace  them  ; 
and  you  know  that  she  who  now  lies 
there  once  wandered  free  over  the  rocks 
with  him." 

And  I  said,  "  Why  does  she  lie  there 


now 


?" 


70   THREE  DREAMS  IN  A  DESERT. 

And  he  said,  "  I  take  it,  ages  ago  the 
Age-of-dominion-of-muscular-force  found 
her,  and  when  she  stooped  low  to  give 
suck  to  her  young,  and  her  back  was 
broad,  he  put  his  burden  of  subjection 
on  to  it,  and  tied  it  on  with  the  broad 
band  of  Inevitable  Necessity.  Then 
she  looked  at  the  earth  and  the  sky, 
and  knew  there  was  no  hope  for  her ; 
and  she  lay  down  on  the  sand  with  the 
burden  she  could  not  loosen.  Ever 
since  she  has  lain  here.  And  the  aofes 
have  come,  and  the  ages  have  gone, 
but  the  band  of  Inevitable  Necessity 
has  not  been  cut." 

And  I  looked  and  saw  in  her  eyes 
the  terrible  patience  of  the  centuries  ; 
the  ground  was  wet  with  her  tears,  and 
her  nostrils  blew  up  the  sand. 

And  I  said,  "  Has  she  ever  tried  to 
move  r 

And  he  said,  "  Sometimes  a  limb  has 


THREE  DREAMS  IN  A  DESERT.       71 

quivered.  But  she  is  wise  ;  she  knows 
she  cannot  rise  with  the  burden  on  her." 

And  I  said,  "  Why  does  not  he  who 
stands  by  her  leave  her  and  go  on  ?  " 

And  he  said,  "  He  cannot.    Look " 

And  I  saw  a  broad  band  passing 
along  the  ground  from  one  to  the  other, 
and  it  bound  them  together. 

He  said,  "  While  she  lies  there  he 
must  stand  and  look  across  the  desert." 

And  I  said,  "  Does  he  know  why  he 
cannot  move  ?  " 

Arid  he  said,  "  No." 

And  I  heard  a  sound  of  something 
cracking,  and  I  looked,  and  I  saw  the 
band  that  bound  the  burden  on  to  her 
back  broken  asunder  ;  and  the  burden 
rolled  on  to  the  ground. 

And  I  said,  "  What  is  this  ?  " 

And  he  said,  "  The  Age-of-muscular- 
force  is  dead.  The  Age-of-nervous- 
force  has  killed  him  with  the  knife  he 


72   THREE  DREAMS  IN  A  DESERT. 

holds  in  his  hand  ;  and  silently  and 
invisibly  he  has  crept  up  to  the  woman, 
and  with  that  knife  of  Mechanical 
Invention  he  has  cut  the  band  that 
bound  the  burden  to  her  back.  The 
Inevitable  Necessity  is  broken.  She 
might  rise  now." 

And  I  saw  that  she  still  lay  motion- 
less on  the  sand,  with  her  eyes  open 
and  her  neck  stretched  out.  And  she 
seemed  to  look  for  something  on  the 
far-off  border  of  the  desert  that  never 
came.  And  I  wondered  if  she  were 
awake  or  asleep,  And  as  I  looked  her 
body  quivered,  and  a  light  came  into 
her  eyes,  like  when  a  sunbeam  breaks 
into  a  dark  room. 

I  said,  "  What  is  it  ?  " 

He  whispered  "  Hush  !  the  thought 
has  come  to  her,  '  Might  I  not  rise  ?  '  " 

And  I  looked.  And  she  raised  her 
head  from  the  sand,  and  I  saw  the  dent 


THREE  DREAMS  IN  A  DESERT.       7^ 

where  her  neck  had  lain  so  long.  And 
she  looked  at  the  earth,  and  she  looked 
at  the  sky,  and  she  looked  at  him  who 
stood  by  her  :  but  he  looked  out  across 
the  desert. 

And  I  saw  her  body  quiver  ;  and  she 
pressed  her  front  knees  to  the  earth, 
and  veins  stood  out ;  and  I  cried,  "  She 
is  going  to  rise  !  " 

But  only  her  sides  heaved,  and  she 
lay  still  where  she  was. 

But  her  head  she  held  up  ;  she  did 
not  lay  it  down  again.  And  he  beside 
me  said,  "  She  is  very  weak.  See,  her  legs 
have  been  crushed  under  her  so  long." 

And  I  saw  the  creature  struggle  :  and 
the  drops  stood  out  on  her. 

And  I  said,  "  Surely  he  who  stands 
beside  her  will  help  her  ?" 

And  he  beside  me  answered,  "  He 
cannot  help  her :  she  must  help  herself. 
Let  her  struggle  till  she  is  strong." 


74        THREE  DREAMS  IN  A  DESERT. 

And  I  cried,  "  At  least  he  will  not 
hinder  her !  See,  he  moves  farther 
from  her,  and  tightens  the  cord  between 
them,  and  he  drags  her  down." 

And  he  answered,  "  He  does  not 
understand.  When  she  moves  she  draws 
the  band  that  binds  them,  and  hurts  him, 
and  he  moves  farther  from  her.  The 
day  will  come  when  he  will  understand, 
and  will  know  what  she  is  doing.  Let 
her  once  stagger  on  to  her  knees.  In 
that  day  he  will  stand  close  to  her,  and 
look  into  her  eyes  with  sympathy." 

And  she  stretched  her  neck,  and  the 
drops  fell  from  her.  And  the  creature 
rose  an  inch  from  the  earth  and  sank  back. 

And  I  cried,  "  Oh,  she  is  too  weak ! 
she  cannot  walk  !  The  long  years  have 
taken  all  her  strength  from  her.  Can 
she  never  move  ?  " 

And  he  answered  me,  "  See  the  light 
in  her  eyes  !  " 


THREE  DREAMS  IN  A  DESERT.       75 

And  slowly  the  creature  staggered  on 
to  its  knees. 

And  I  awoke  :  and  all  to  the  east  and 
to  the  west  stretched  the  barren  earth, 
with  the  dry  bushes  on  it.  The  ants 
ran  up  and  down  in  the  red  sand,  and 
the  heat  beat  fiercely.  I  looked  up 
through  the  thin  branches  of  the  tree 
at  the  blue  sky  overhead.  I  stretched 
myself,  and  I  mused  over  the  dream  I 
had  had.  And  I  fell  asleep  again,  with 
my  head  on  my  saddle.  And  in  the 
fierce  heat  I  had  another  dream. 

I  saw  a  desert  and  I  saw  a  woman 
coming  out  of  it.  And  she  came  to  the 
bank  of  a  dark  river  ;  and  the  bank 
was  steep  and  high.^     And  on  it  an  old 

*  The  banks  of  an  African  river  are  sometimes 
a  hundred  feet  high,  and  consist  of  deep  shifting 
sands,  through  which  in  the  course  of  ages  the 
river  has  worn  its  gigantic  bed. 


76   THREE  DREAMS  IN  A  DESERT. 

man    met   her,   who   had  a  long   white 
beard  ;  and  a  stick   that  curled  was  in 
his  hand,  and  on  it  was  written  Reason. 
And    he   asked  her  what  she  wanted  ; 
and  she  said  "  I  am  woman  ;  and   I  am 
seekinof  for  the  land  of  Freedom." 
And  he  said,  "  It  is  before  you." 
And  she  said,  "  I  see  nothing  before 
me  but  a  dark  flowing  river,  and  a  bank 
steep  and  high,  and  cuttings  here  and 
there  with  heavy  sand  in  them." 
And  he  said,  "  And  beyond  that  ?  " 
She  said,   '*  I  see  nothing,  but  some- 
times,  when  I  shade  my  eyes  with  my 
hand,  I  think  I  see  on  the  further  bank 
trees  and  hills,  and  the  sun  shining  on 
them  ! " 

He    said,    "That    is    the    Land    of 
Freedom." 

She  said,  "  How  am  I  to  get  there  .'*" 

He  said,  "  There  is  one  way,  and  one 

only.      Down     the    banks    of    Labour, 


1 HREE  DREAMS  IN  A  DESERT.       77 

through  the  water  of  Suffering.     There 

is  no  other." 

She  said,  *'  Is  there  no  bridge  ?  " 

He  answered.  "  None." 

She  said,  "  Is  the  water  deep  ?  ** 

He  said,  "  Deep." 

She  said,  "  Is  the  floor  worn  ?  " 

He  said,  "It  is.     Your  foot  may  shp 

at  any  time,  and  you  may  be  lost." 
She  said,  "Have'any  crossed  already?" 
He  said,  "  Some  have  tried  !  " 
She  said,  "  Is  there  a  track  to  show 

where  the  best  fording  is  ?" 
He  said,  **  It  has  to  be  made." 
She  shaded  her  eyes  with  her  hand ; 

and  she  said,  "  I  will  go." 

And  he  said,  **  You  must  take  off  the 

clothes  you  wore  in  the  desert :  they  are 

dragged  down  by  them  who  go  into  the 

water  so  clothed." 

And  she  threw  from  her  gladly  the 

mantle  of  Ancient-received-opinions  she 


78        THREE  DREAMS  IN  A  DESERT. 

wore,  for  it  was  worn  full  of  holes. 
And  she  took  the  girdle  from  her  waist 
that  she  had  treasured  so  long,  and  the 
moths  flew  out  of  it^in  a  cloud.  And 
he  said,  "  Take  the  shoes  of  dependence 
off  your  feet." 

And  she  stood  there  naked,  but  for 
one  white  garment  that  clung  close  to 
her. 

And  he  said,  "  That  you  may  keep. 
So  they  wear  clothes  in  the  Land  of 
Freedom,  In  the  water  it  buoys ;  it 
always  swims." 

And  I  saw  on  its  breast  was  written 
Truth  ;  and  it  was  white  ;  the  sun  had 
not  often  shone  on  it  ;  the  other  clothes 
had  covered  it  up.  And  he  said,  "  Take 
this  stick;  hold  it  fast.  In  that  day 
when  it  slips  from  your  hand  you  are 
lost.  Put  it  down  before  you ;  feel 
your  way :  where  it  cannot  find  a 
bottom  do  not  set  your  foot." 


THREE  DREAMS  IN  A  DESERT.       79 

And  she  said,  **  I  am  ready ;  let  me 

go." 

And  he  said,  **  No — but  stay  ;  what 
is  that — in  your  breast  ?  " 
She  was  silent. 

He  said,  "  Open  it,  and  let  me  see." 
And  she  opened  it.  And  against 
her  breast  was  a  tiny  thing,  who 
drank  from  it,  and  the  yellow  curls 
above  his  forehead  pressed  against 
it  ;  and  his  knees  were  drawn  up  to 
her,  and  he  held  her  breast  fast  with 
his  hands. 

And  Reason  said,  "Who  is  he,  and 
what  is  he  doing  here  ?  " 

And  she  said,  "See  his  little  wings " 

And  Reason  said,  "  Put  him  down." 
And  she  said,  "He  is  asleep,  and  he 
is  drinking !  I  will  carry  him  to  the 
Land  of  Freedom.  He  has  been  a 
child  so  long,  so  long,  I  have  carried 
him.      In  the  Land  of  Freedom  he  will 


8o       THREE  DREAMS  IN  A  DESERT. 

be  a  man.  We  will  walk  together 
there,  and  his  great  white  wings  will 
overshadow  me.  He  has  lisped  one 
word  only  to  me  in  the  desert — 
'  Passion  ! '  I  have  dreamed  he  might 
learn  to  say  *  Friendship '  in  that  land." 
And  Reason  said,  "  Put  him  down  !  " 
And  she  said,  "  I  will  carry  him  so — 
with  one  arm,  and  with  the  other  I  will 
fight  the  water." 

He  said,  "  Lay  him  down  on  the 
ground.  When  you  are  in  the  water 
you  will  forget  to  fight,  you  will  think 
only  of  him.  Lay  him  down."  He 
said,  **  He  will  not  die.  When  he  finds 
you  have  left  him  alone  he  will  open 
his  wings  and  fly.  He  will  be  in  the 
Land  of  Freedom  before  you.  Those 
who  reach  the  Land  of  Freedom,  the 
first  hand  they  see  stretching  down  the 
bank  to  help  them  shall  be  Love's.  He 
will   be   a   man  then,   not  a  child.     In 


THREE  DREAMS  IN  A  DESERT.       8i 

your  breast  he  cannot  thrive ;  put  him 
down  that  he  may  grow." 

And  she  took  her  bosom  from  his 
mouth,  and  he  bit  her,  so  that  the  blood 
ran  down  on  to  the  ground.  And  she 
laid  him  down  on  the  earth ;  and  she 
covered  her  wound.  And  she:  bent  and 
stroked  his  wings.  And  I  saw  the  hair 
on  her  forehead  turned  white  as  snow, 
and  she  had  changed  from  youth  to 
a^e. 

And  she  stood  far  off  on  the  bank  of 
the  river.  And  she  said,  "  For  what  do 
I  go  to  this  far  land  which  no  one  has 
ever  reached  ."^  Ok,  I  am  alone  /  I  am 
utterly  alone  I " 

And  Reason,  that  old  man,  said 
to  her,  "  Silence  !  what  do  you 
hear }  " 

And^  she  listened  intently,  and  she 
said,  "  I  hear  a  sound  of  feet,  a 
thousand  times  ten  thousand  and 
6 


82        THREE  DREAMS  IN  A  DESERT. 

thousands  of  thousands,  and  they  beat 
this  way  !  " 

He  said,  "  They  are  the  feet  of  those 
that  shall  follow  you.  Lead  on  !  make 
a  track  to  the  water's  edge !  Where 
you  stand  now,  the  ground  will  be 
beaten  flat  by  ten  thousand  times  ten 
thousand  feet."  And  he  said,  "  Have 
you  seen  the  locusts  how  they  cross  a 
stream  }  First  one  comes  down  to  the 
water-edge,  and  it  is  swept  away,  and 
then  another  comes  and  then  another, 
and  then  another,  and  at  last  with  their 
bodies  piled  up  a  bridge  is  built  and  the 
rest  pass  over." 

She  said,  "  And,  of  those  that  come 
first,  some  are  swept  away,  and  are 
heard  of  no  more ;  their  bodies  do  not 
even  build  the  bridge  }'' 

"  And  are  swept  away,  and  are  heard 
of  no  more — and  what  of  that  ? "  he 
said. 


THREE  DREAMS  IN  A  DESERT.       83 

**  And  what  of  that "  she  said. 

"  They  make  a  track  to  the  water's 
edge." 

"  They  make  a  track   to   the  water's 

edge ."     And  she  said,  "  Over  that 

bridge  which  shall  be  built  with  our 
bodies,  who  will  pass  ?  " 

He  said,  "  The  entire  human  race" 

And  the  woman  grasped  her  staff. 

And  I  saw  her  turn  down  that  dark 
path  to  the  river. 

And  I  awoke ;  and  all  about  me  was 
the  yellow  afternoon  light :  the  sinking 
sun  lit  up  the  fingers  of  the  milk  bushes  ; 
and  my  horse  stood  by  me  quietly  feed- 
ing. And  I  turned  on  my  side,  and  I 
watched  the  ants  run  by  thousands  in 
the  red  sand.  I  thought  I  would  go  on 
my  way  now — the  afternoon  was  cooler. 
Then  a  drowsiness  crept  over  me  again, 
and  I  laid  back  my  head  and  fell  asleep. 


84   THREE  DREAMS  IN  A  DESERT 

And  I  dreamed  a  dream. 

I  dreamed  I  saw  a  land.  And  on  the 
hills  walked  brave  women  and  brave 
men,  hand  in  hand.  And  they  looked 
into  each  other's  eyes,  and  they  were  not 
afraid. 

And  I  saw  the  women  also  hold  each 
other's  hands. 

And  I  said  to  him  beside  me,  "  What 
place  is  this  ?  " 

And  he  said,  "  This  is  heaven." 

And  I  said,  "  Where  is  it  ?  " 

And  he  answered,  "  On  earth." 

And  I  said,  ''When  shall  these  things 
be?" 

And  he  answered,  "  In  the  Future." 

And  I  awoke,  and  all  about  me  was 
the  sunset  light ;  and  on  the  low  hills  the 
sun  lay,  and  a  delicious  coolness  had 
crept  over  everything ;  and  the  ants 
were  going  slowly  home.     And  I  walked 


THREE  DREAMS  IN  A  DESERT.        85 

towards  my  horse,  who  stood  quietly- 
feeding.  Then  the  sun  passed  down 
behind  the  hills ;  but  I  knew  that  the 
next  day  he  would  arise  again. 


A  DREAM  OF  WILD  BEES. 


A  DREAM  OF  WILD  BEES. 


MOTHER  sat  alone  at  an 
open  window.  Through  it 
came  the  voices  of  the  chil- 
dren as  they  played  under  the 
acacia-trees,  and  the  breath  of  the  hot 
afternoon  air.  In  and  out  of  the  room 
flew  the  bees,  the  wild  bees,  with  their 
legs  yellow  with  pollen,  going  to  and 
from  the  acacia-trees,  droning  all  the 
while.  She  sat  on  a  low  chair  before 
the  table  and  darned.  She  took  her 
work  from  the  great  basket  that  stood 
before  her  on  the  table :  some  lay  on 
her  knee  and  half  covered  the  book  that 


90  A  DREAM  OF  WILD  BEES. 

rested  there.  She  watched  the  needle 
go  in  and  out ;  and  the  dreary  hum  of 
the  bees  and  the  noise  of  the  children's 
voices  became  a  confused  murmur  in  her 
ears,  as  she  worked  slowly  and  more 
slowly.  Then  the  bees,  the  long-legged 
wasp-like  fellows  who  make  no  honey, 
flew  closer  and  closer  to  her  head, 
droning.  Then  she  grew  more  and 
more  drowsy,  and  she  laid  her  hand, 
with  the  stocking  over  it,  on  the  edge 
of  the  table,  and  leaned  her  head  upon 
it.  And  the  voices  of  the  children  out- 
side grew  more  and  more  dreamy,  came 
now  far,  now  near ;  then  she  did  not 
hear  them,  but  she  felt  under  her  heart 
where  the  ninth  child  lay.  Bent  forward 
and  sleeping  there,  with  the  bees  flying 
about  her  head,  she  had  a  weird  brain- 
picture  ;  she  thought  the  bees  lengthened 
and  lengthened  themselves  out  and  be- 
came human  creatures  and  moved  round 


A  DREAM  OF  WILD  BEES.  91 

and  round  her.  Then  one  came  to  her 
softly,  saying,  "  Let  me  lay  my  hand 
upon  thy  side  where  the  child  sleeps. 
If  I  shall  touch  him  he  shall  be  as  I." 

She  asked,  "  Who  are  you  ?  " 

And  he  said,  "  I  am  Health.  Whom 
I  touch  will  have  always  the  red  blood 
dancing  in  his  veins  ;  he  will  not  know 
weariness  nor  pain  ;  life  will  be  a  long 
laugh  to  him." 

"  No,"  said  another,  "  let  me  touch  ; 
for  I  am  Wealth.  If  I  touch  him 
material  care  shall  not  feed  on  him. 
He  shall  live  on  the  blood  and  sinews 
of  his  fellow-men,  if  he  will  ;  and  what 
his  eye  lusts  for,  his  hand  will  have. 
He  shall  not  know  *  I  want.' "  And  the 
child  lay  still  like  lead. 

And  another  said.  **  Let  me  touch 
him  :  I  am  Fame.  The  man  I  touch, 
I  lead  to  a  high  hill  where  all  men  may 
see  him.     When   he  dies  he  is  not  for- 


)2  A  DREAM  OF  WILD  BEES. 

gotten,  his  name  rings  down  the  cen- 
turies, each  echoes  it  on  to  his  fellows. 
Think — not  to  be  forgotten  through  the 
ages  !  " 

And  the  mother  lay  breathing  steadily, 
but  in  the  brain-picture  they  pressed 
closer  to  her. 

"  Let  me  touch  the  child,"  said  one, 
"  for  I  am  Love.  If  I  touch  him  he 
shall  not  walk  through  life  alone.  In 
the  greatest  dark,  when  he  puts  out  his 
hand  he  shall  find  another  hand  by  it. 
When  the  world  is  against  him,  another 
shall  say,  '  You  and  /.'  "  And  the  child 
trembled. 

But  another  pressed  close  and  said, 
**  Let  me  touch ;  for  I  am  Talent.  I 
can  do  all  things  — that  have  been  done 
before.  I  touch  the  soldier,  the  states- 
man, the  thinker,  and  the  politician  who 
succeed ;  and  the  writer  who  is  never 
before  his  time,  and  never  behind  it.     If 


A  DREAM  OF  WILD  BEES.  93 

I  touch  the  child  he  shall  not  weep  for 
failure." 

About  the  mother's  head  the  bees 
were  flying,  touching  her  with  their  long 
tapering  limbs  ;  and,  in  her  brain-picture, 
out  of  the  shadow  of  the  room  came 
one  with  sallow  face,  deep-lined,  the 
cheeks  drawn  into  hollows,  and  a  mouth 
smiling  quiveringly.  He  stretched  out 
his  hand.  And  the  mother  drew  back, 
and  cried,  "Who  are  you?"  He  an- 
swered nothing ;  and  she  looked  up 
between  his  eyelids.  And  she  said, 
"  What  can  you  give  the  child — health  ?  " 
And  he  said,  "The  man  I  touch,  there 
wakes  up  in  his  blood  a  burning  fever, 
that  shall  lick  his  blood  as  fire.  The 
fever  that  I  will  give  him  shall  be  cured 
when  his  life  is  cured." 

"  You  give  wealth  ?  " 

He  shook  his  head.  "  The  man 
whom  I  touch,  when  he  bends  to  pick 


M  A  DREAM  OF  WILD  BEES. 

up  gold,  he  sees  suddenly  a  light  over 
his  head  in  the  sky  ;  while  he  looks  up 
to  see  it,  the  gold  slips  from  between 
his  fingers,  or  sometimes  another  pass- 
ing takes  it  from  them." 

"  Fame  ?  " 

He  answered,  "  Likely  not.  For  the 
man  I  touch  there  is  a  path  traced  out  in 
the  sand  by  a  finger  which  no  man  sees. 
That  he  must  follow.  Sometimes  it 
leads  almost  to  the  top,  and  then  turns 
down  suddenly  into  the  valley.  He 
must  follow  it,  though  none  else  sees 
the  tracing." 

"Love?" 

He  said,  "  He  shall  hunger  for  it — 
but  he  shall  not  find  it.  When  he 
stretches  out  his  arms  to  it,  and  would 
lay  his  heart  against  a  thing  he  loves, 
then,  far  off  along  the  horizon  he  shall 
see  a  light  play.  He  must  go  towards 
it.     The  thing  he  loves  will  not  journey 


A  DREAM  OF  WILD  BEES.  95 

with  him  ;  he  must  travel  alone.  When 
he  presses  somewhat  to  his  burning 
heart,  crying,  '  Mine,  mine,  my  own  ! '  he 
shall  hear  a  voice  —  *  Renounce !  re- 
nounce !  this  is  not  thine ! '  " 

"He  shall  succeed  ?  " 

He  said,  "  He  shall  fail.  When  he 
runs  with  others  they  shall  reach  the 
goal  before  him.  For  strange  voices 
shall  call  to  him  and  strange  lights  shall 
beckon  him,  and  he  must  wait  and  listen. 
And  this  shall  be  the  strangest :  far  off 
across  the  burning  sands  where,  to  other 
men,  there  is  only  the  desert's  waste,  he 
shall  see  a  blue  sea  !  On  that  sea  the  sun 
shines  always,  and  the  water  is  blue  as 
burning  amethyst,  and  the  foam  is  white 
on  the  shore.  A  great  land  rises  from 
it,  and  he  shall  see  upon  the  mountain- 
tops  burning  gold." 

The  mother  said,  "  He  shall  reach 
it?" 


96  A  DREAM  OF  WILD  BEES. 

And  he  smiled  curiously. 

She  said,  "  It  is  real  ?  " 

And  he  said,  "  What  is  real  ?  " 

And  she  looked  up  between  his  half- 
closed  eyelids,  and  said,  "  Touch." 

And  he  leaned  forward  and  laid  his 
hand  upon  the  sleeper,  and  whispered  to 
it,  smiling  ;  and  this  only  she  heard — 
"  This  shall  be  thy  reward— that  the 
ideal  shall  be  real  to  thee!' 

And  the  child  trembled ;  but  the 
mother  slept  on  heavily  and  her  brain- 
picture  vanished.  But  deep  within  her 
the  antenatal  thing  that  lay  here  had  a 
dream.  In  those  eyes  that  had  never 
seen  the  day,  in  that  half-shaped  brain 
was  a  sensation  of  light!  Light — that 
it  never  had  seen.  Light — that  perhaps 
it  never  should  see.  Light — that  existed 
somewhere ! 

And  already  it  had  its  reward  :  the 
Ideal  was  real  to  it. 

London. 


IN  A   RUINED    CHAPEL. 


"I  cannot  forgive — I  love." 


IN  A   RUINED   CHAPEL, 


HERE  are  four  bare  walls; 
there  is  a  Christ  upon  the 
walls,  in  red,  carrying  his 
cross ;  there  is  a  Blessed 
Bambino  with  the  face  rubbed  out ; 
there  is  Madonna  in  blue  and  red  ; 
there  are  Roman  soldiers  and  a  Christ 
with  tied  hands.  All  the  roof  is  gone  ; 
overhead  is  the  blue,  blue  Italian  sky  ; 
the  rain  has  beaten  holes  in  the  walls, 
and  the  plaster  is  peeling  from  it.  The 
chapel  stands  here  alone  upon  the  pro- 
montory, and  by  day  and  by  night  the 
sea  breaks  at  its  feet.     Some  say  that  it 


IN  A  RUINED  CHAPEL. 


was  set  here  by  the  monks  frOm  the 
island  down  below,  that  they  might 
bring-  their  sick  here  in  times  of  deadly 
plague.  Some  say  that  it  was  set  here 
that  the  passing  monks  and  friars,  as 
they  hurried  by  upon  the  roadway, 
might  stop  and  say  their  prayers  here. 
Now  no  one  stops  to  pray  here,  and 
the  sick  come  no  more  to  be  healed. 

Behind  it  runs  the  old  Roman  road. 
If  you  climb  it  and  come  and  sit  there 
alone  on  a  hot  sunny  day  you  may 
almost  hear  at  last  the  clink  of  the 
Roman  soldiers  upon  the  pavement,  and 
the  sound  of  that  older  time,  as  you  sit 
there  in  the  sun,  when  Hannibal  and 
his  men  broke  through  the  brushwood, 
and  no  road  was. 

Now  it  is  very  quiet.  Sometimes  a 
peasant  girl  comes  riding  by  between 
her  panniers,  and  you  hear  the  mule's 
feet  beat  upon  the  bricks  of  the  pave- 


IN  A  RUINED  CHAPEL.  loi 

ment ;  sometimes  an  old  woman  goes 
past  with  a  bundle  of  weeds  upon  her 
head,  or  a  brigand-looking  man  hurries 
by  with  a  bundle  of  sticks  in  his  hand  ; 
but  for  the  rest  the  Chapel  lies  here 
alone  upon  the  promontory,  between 
the  two  bays  and  hears  the  sea  break 
at  its  feet. 

I  came  here  one  winter's  day  when 
the  midday  sun  shone  hot  on  the  bricks 
of  the  Roman  road.  I  was  weary,  and 
the  way  seemed  steep.  I  walked  into 
the  chapel  to  the  broken  window, 
and  looked  out  across  the  bay.  Far 
off,  across  the  blue,  blue  water,  were 
towns  and  villages,  hanging  white  and 
red  dots,  upon  the  mountain-sides,  and 
the  blue  mountains  rose  up  into  the  sky, 
and  now  stood  out  from  it  and  now 
melted  back  again. 

The  mountains  seemed  calling  to  me. 


I02  IN  A  RUINED  CHAPEL. 

but  I  knew  there  would  never  be  a 
bridge  built  from  them  to  me  ;  never, 
never,  never !  I  shaded  my  eyes  with 
my  hand  and  turned  away.  I  could 
not  bear  to  look  at  them. 

I  walked  through  the  ruined  Chapel, 
and  looked  at  the  Christ  in  red  carrying 
his  cross,  and  the  Blessed  rubbed-out 
Bambino,  and  the  Roman  soldiers,  and 
the  folded  hands,  and  the  reed  ;  and  I 
went  and  sat  down  in  the  open  porch 
upon  a  stone.  At  my  feet  was  the 
small  bay,  with  its  white  row  of  houses 
buried  among  the  olive  trees  ;  the  water 
broke  in  a  long,  thin,  white  line  of  foam 
along  the  shore  ;  and  I  leaned  my 
elbows  on  my  knees.  I  was  tired,  very 
tired  ;  tired  with  a  tiredness  that  seemed 
older  than  the  heat  of  the  day  and  the 
shining  of  the  sun  on  the  bricks  of  the 
Roman  road  ;  and  I  lay  my  head  upon 
my  knees ;  I  heard  the  breaking  of  the 


IN  A  RUINED  CHAPEL,  103 

water  on  the  rocks  three  hundred  feet 
below,  and  the  rustling  of  the  wind 
among  the  olive  trees  and  the  ruined 
arches,  and  then  I  fell  asleep  there.  I 
had  a  dream. 

A  man  cried  up  to  God,  and  God 
sent  down  an  angel  to  help  him ;  and 
the  angel  came  back  and  said,  "  I  cannot 
help  that  man." 

God  said,  "  How  is  it  with  him  ?  " 

And  the  angel  said,  "  He  cries  out 
continually  that  one  has  injured  him;  and 
he  would  forgive  him  and  he  cannot." 

God  said,  *'  What  have  you  done  for 
him?" 

The  angel  said,  "  All  .     I  took 

him  by  the  hand,  and  I  said,  *  See, 
when  other  men  speak  ill  of  that  man 
do  you  speak  well  of  him  ;  secretly,  in 
ways  he  shall  not  know,  serve  him ;  if 
you  have  anything  you  value  share  it 
with  him,  so,  serving  him,  you   will   at 


I04  IN  A  RUINED  CHAPEL. 

last  come  to  feel  possession  in  him,  and 
you  will  forgive.'  And  he  said,  *  I  will 
do  it.'  Afterwards,  as  I  passed  by  in 
the  dark  of  night,  I  heard  one  crying 
out,  '  I  have  done  all.  It  helps  nothing! 
My  speaking  well  of  him  helps  me 
nothing!  If  I  share  my  heart's  blood 
with  him,  is  the  burning  within  me  less  } 
I  cannot  forgive  ;  I  cannot  forgive !  Oh, 
God,  I  cannot  forgive ! ' 

"  I  said  to  him,  *  See  here,  look  back 
on  all  your  past.  See  from  your  child- 
hood all  smallness,  all  indirectness  that 
has  been  yours  ;  look  well  at  it,  and  in 
its  light  do  you  not  see  every  man  your 
brother  ?  Are  you  so  sinless  you  have 
right  to  hate  ? ' 

"  He  looked,  and  said,  *  Yes,  you  are 
right ;  I  too  have  failed,  and  I  forgive 
my  fellow.  Go,  I  am  satisfied  ;  I  have 
forgiven  ; '  and  he  laid  him  down  peace- 
fully and  folded  his  hands  on  his  breast, 


IN  A  RUINED  CHAPEL.  105 

and  I  thought  it  was  well  with  him. 
But  scarcely  had  my  wings  rustled 
and  I  turned  to  come  up  here,  when 
I  heard  one  crying  out  on  earth  again, 
'  I  cannot  forgive !  I  cannot  forgive ! 
Oh,  God,  God,  I  cannot  forgive !  It 
is  better  to  die  than  to  hate !  I  can- 
not forgive  !  I  cannot  forgive ! '  And 
I  went  and  stood  outside  his  door  in 
the  dark,  and  I  heard  him  cry,  *  I  have 
not  sinned  so,  not  so  !  If  I  have  torn 
my  fellows'  flesh  ever  so  little,  I  have 
kneeled  down  and  kissed  the  wound 
with  my  mouth  till  it  was  healed.  I 
have  not  willed  that  any  soul  should 
be  lost  through  hate  of  me.  If  they 
have  but  fancied  that  I  wronged  them 
I  have  lain  down  on  the  ground  before 
them  that  they  might  tread  on  me,  and 
so,  seeing  my  humiliation,  forgive  and 
not  be  lost  through  hating  me ;  they 
have    not    cared    that   my   soul    should 


io6  IN  A  RUINED  CHAPEL. 

be  lost ;  they  have  not  willed  to  save 
me ;  they  have  not  tried  that  I  should 
forgive  them ! ' 

"  I  said  to  him,  *  See  here,  be  thou 
content ;  do  noi  forgive :  forget  this 
soul  and  its  injury  ;  go  on  your  way. 
In  the  next  world  perhaps ' 

"He  cried,  '  Go  from  me,  you  under- 
stand nothing  !  What  is  the  next  world 
to  me !  I  am  lost  now,  to-day.  I 
cannot  see  the  sunlight  shine,  the  dust 
is  in  my  throat,  the  sand  is  in  my  eyes  ! 
Go  from  me,  you  know  nothing !  Oh, 
once  again  before  I  die  to  see  that  the 
world  is  beautiful !  Oh,  God,  God, 
I  cannot  live  and  not  love.  I  cannot 
live  and  hate.  Oh,  God,  God,  God  ! ' 
So  I  left  him  crying  out  and  came  back 
here." 

God  said,  "  This  man's  soul  must  be 
saved." 

And  the  angel  said  "  How  ?  " 


IN  A  RUINED  CHAPEL.  107 

God  said,  "Go  down  you,  and  save 
It. 

The  angel  said,  "What  more  shall  I 
do?" 

Then  God  bent  down  and  whispered 
in  the  angel's  ear,  and  the  angel  spread 
out  its  wings  and  went  down  to  earth. 

And  partly  I  woke,  sitting  there  upon 
the  broken  stone  with  my  head  on  my 
knee ;  but  I  was  too  weary  to  rise.  I 
heard  the  wind  roam  through  the  olive 
trees  and  among  the  ruined  arches,  and 
then  I  slept  again. 

The  angel  went  down  and  found  the 
man  with  the  bitter  heart  and  took  him 
by  the  hand,  and  led  him  to  a  certain 
spot. 

Now  the  man  wist  not  where  it  was  the 
angel  would  take  him  nor  what  he  would 
show  him  there.     And  when  they  came 


lo8  IN  A  RUINED  CHAPEL. 

the  angel  shaded  the  man's  eyes  with  his 
wing,  and  when  he  moved  it  the  man 
saw  somewhat  on  the  earth  before  them. 
For  God  had  given  it  to  that  angel  to 
unclothe  a  human  soul ;  to  take  from  it 
all  those  outward  attributes  of  fornj,  and 
colour,  and  age,  and  sex,  whereby  one 
man  is  known  from  among  his  fellows 
and  is  marked  off  from  the  rest,  and 
the  soul  lay  before  them,  bare,  as  a  man 
turning  his  eye  inwards  beholds  himself. 
They  saw  its  past,  its  childhood,  the 
tiny  life  with  the  dew  upon  it ;  they  saw 
its  youth  when  the  dew  was  melting, 
and  the  creature  raised  its  Lilliputian 
mouth  to  drink  from  a  cup  too  large  for 
it,  and  they  saw  how  the  water  spilt ; 
they  saw  its  hopes  that  were  never 
realized ;  they  saw  its  hours  of  intel- 
lectual blindness,  men  call  sin ;  they 
saw  its  hours  of  all-radiating  insight, 
which  men  call  righteousness  ;  they  saw 


IM  A  RUINED  CHAPEL  icg 

its  hour  of  strength,  when  it  leaped  to 
its  feet  crying,  "  I  am  omnipotent ;  "  its 
hour  of  weakness,  when  it  fell  to  the  earth 
and  grasped  dust  only ;  they  saw  what  it 
might  have  been,  but  never  would  be. 

The  man  bent  forward. 

And  the  angel  said,  "  What  is  it  ?  " 

He  answered,  "It  is  //  it  is  myself!" 
And  he  went  forward  as  if  he  would 
have  lain  his  heart  against  it ;  but  the 
angel  held  him  back  and  covered  his  eyes. 

Now  God  had  given  power  to  the 
angel  further  to  unclothe  that  soul,  to 
take  from  it  all  those  outward  attributes 
of  time  and  place  and  circumstance 
whereby  the  individual  life  is  marked 
off  from  the  life  of  the  whole. 

Again  the  angel  uncovered  the  man's 
eyes,  and  he  looked.  He  saw  before 
him  that  which  in  its  tiny  drop  reflects 
the  whole  universe ;  he  saw  that  which 
marks    within    itself    the    step    of    the 


IN  A  RUINED  CHAPEL. 


furthest  star,  and  tells  how  the  crystal 
grows  under  ground  where  no  eye  has 
seen  it ;  that  which  is  where  the  germ 
in  the  egg  stirs;  which  moves  the 
outstretched  fingers  of  the  little  new- 
born babe,  and  keeps  the  leaves  of  the 
trees  pointing  upward ;  which  moves 
where  the  jelly-fish  sail  alone  on  the 
sunny  seas,  and  is  where  the  lichens 
form  on  the  mountains'  rocks. 

And  the  man  looked. 

And  the  angel  touched  him. 

But  the  man  bowed  his  head  and 
shuddered.  He  whispered — ''It  is  God /  " 

And  the  angel  re-covered  the  man's 
eyes.  And  when  he  uncovered  them 
there  was  one  walking  from  them  a 
little  way  off; — for  the  angel  had  re- 
clothed  the  soul  in  its  outward  form  and 
vesture — and  the  man  knew  who  it  was. 

And  the  angel  said,  "  Do  you  know 
him?" 


IN  A  RUINED  CHAPEL,  in 

And  the  man  said,  "  I  know  him," 
and  he  looked  after  the  figure. 

And  the  angel  said,  "  Have  you  for- 
given him  ?  " 

But  the  man  said,  "  How  beautiful 
my  brother  is  /" 

And  the  angel  looked  into  the  man's 
eyes,  and  he  shaded  his  own  face  with 
his  wing  from  the  light.  He  laughed 
softly  and  went  up  to  God. 

But  the  men  were  together  on  earth. 

I  awoke. 

The  blue,  blue  sky  was  over  my  head, 
and  the  waves  were  breaking  below  on 
the  shore.  I  walked  through  the  little 
chapel,  and  I  saw  the  Madonna  in  blue 
and  red,  and  the  Christ  carrying  his 
cross,  and  the  Roman  soldiers  with  the 
rod,  and  the  Blessed  Bambino  with  its 
broken  face;  and  then  I  walked  down 
the  sloping  rock  to  the  brick  pathway. 


IiY  A  RUINED  CHAPEL. 


The  olive  trees  stood  up  on  either  side 
of  the  road,  their  black  berries  and  pale- 
green  leaves  stood  out  against  the  sky  ; 
and  the  little  ice-plants  hung  from  the 
crevices  in  the  stone  wall.  It  seemed 
to  me  as  if  it  must  have  rained  while 
I  was  asleep.  I  thought  I  had  never 
seen  the  heavens  and  the  earth  look 
so  beautiful  before.  I  walked  down  the 
road.  The  old,  old,  old  tiredness  was 
gone. 

Presently  there  came  a  peasant  boy 
down  the  path  leading  his  ass ;  she  had 
two  large  panniers  fastened  to  her  sides ; 
and  they  went  down  the  road  before  me. 

I  had  never  seen  him  before ;  but 
I  should  have  liked  to  walk  by  him  and 

to  have  held  his  hand only,  he  would 

not  have  known  why. 

Aiassio,  Italy. 


LIFE'S  GIFTS. 


LIFE'S  GIFTS. 


SAW  a  woman  sleeping.  In 
her  sleep  she  dreamt  Life 
stood  before  her,  and  held 
in  each  hand  a  gift — in  the 
one  Love,  in  the  other  Freedom.  And 
she  said  to  the  woman,  "  Choose !  " 

And  the  woman  waited  long  :  and  she 
said,  "  Freedom  ! " 

And  Life  said,  "  Thou  hast  well 
chosen.  If  thou  hadst  said,  '  Love,'  I 
would  have  given  thee  that  thou  didst 
ask  for  ;  and  I  would  have  gone  from 
thee,  and  returned  to  thee  no  more. 
Now,   the  day  will  come  when   I   shall 


Ii6  LIFE'S  GIFTS. 


return.     In  that  day  I  shall  bear  both 
gifts  in  one  hand." 

I  heard  the  woman  laugh  in  her  sleep. 

London. 


THE  ARTIST'S  SECRET. 


THE  ARTISTS  SECRET. 


HERE  was  an  artist  once, 
and  he  painted  a  picture. 
Other  artists  had  colours 
richer  and  rarer,  and  painted 
more  notable  pictures.  He  painted  his 
with  one  colour,  there  was  a  wonderful 
red  glow  on  it ;  and  the  people  went  up 
and  down,  saying,  "  We  like  the  picture, 
we  like  the  glow." 

The  other  artists  came  and  said, 
"  Where  does  he  get  his  colour  from  ?  " 
They  asked  him  ;  and  he  smiled  and 
said,  "  I  cannot  tell  you  " ;  and  worked 
on  with  his  head  bent  low. 


THE  ARTIST'S  SECRET. 


And  one  went  to  the  far  East  and 
bought  costly  pigments,  and  made  a 
rare  colour  and  painted,  but  after  a 
time  the  picture  faded.  Another  read  in 
the  old  books,  and  made  a  colour  rich 
and  rare,  but  when  he  had  put  it  on  the 
picture  it  was  dead. 

But  the  artist  painted  on.  Always 
the  work  got  redder  and  redder,  and  the 
artist  grew  whiter  and  whiter.  At  last 
one  day  they  found  him  dead  before  his 
picture,  and  they  took  him  up  to  bury 
him.  The  other  men  looked  about  in 
all  the  pots  and  crucibles,  but  they  found 
nothing  they  had  not. 

And  when  they  undressed  him  to  put 
his  grave-clothes  on  him,  they  found 
above  his  left  breast  the  mark  of  a 
wound — it  was  an  old,  old  wound,  that 
must  have  been  there  all  his  life,  for  the 
edges  were  old  and  hardened ;  but  Death, 
who  seals  all  things,  had  drawn  the  edges 
together,  and  closed  it  un. 


THE  ARTIST'S  SECRET.  121 

And  they  buried  him.  And  still  the 
people  went  about  saying,  "  Where  did 
he  find  his  colour  from  ?  " 

And  it  came  to  pass  that  after  a  while 
the  artist  was  forgotten — but  the  work 
lived. 

St.  Leonards-on-Sea. 


\ 

"/  THOUGHT  I  STOOD."* 


«/  THOUGHT  I  STOODr 


I. 


THOUGHT  I  stood  in 
Heaven  before  God's  throne, 
and  God  asked  me  what  I 
had  come  for.  I  said  I  had 
come  to  arraign  my  brother,  Man. 
God  said,  "  What  has  he  done  ?  " 
I  said,  "He  has  taken  my  sister, 
Woman,  and  has  stricken  her,  and 
wounded  her,  and  thrust  her  out  into  the 
streets  ;  she  Hes  there  prostrate.  His 
hands  are  red  with  blood.  /  am  here 
to  arraign  him  ;  that  the  kingdom  be 
taken  from  him,  because  he  is  not  worthy, 


1 26  "  /  THO  UGHT  I  S  TOOD." 

and  given  unto  me.  My  hands  are 
pure." 

I  showed  them. 

God  said,  "  Thy  hands  are  pure. — 
Lift  up  thy  robe.'* 

I  raised  it ;  my  feet  were  red,  blood- 
red,  as  if  I   had  trodden  in  wine. 

God  said,  "  How  is  this  ?  " 

I  said,  "  Dear  Lord,  the  streets  on 
earth  are  full  of  mire.  If  I  should  walk 
straight  on  in  them  my  outer  robe  might 
be  bespotted,  you  see  how  white  it  is ! 
Therefore  I  pick  my  way." 

God  said,  "  On  what  ?  " 

I  was  silent,  and  I  let  my  robe  fall. 
I  wrapped  my  mantle  about  my  head. 
I  went  out  softly.  I  was  afraid  that  the 
angels  would  see  me. 

IL 

Once  more  I  stood  at  the  gate  of 
Heaven,  I   and  another.     We  held  fast 


'' I  THOUGHT  I  STOOD."  127 

by  one  another  ;  we  were  very  tired. 
We  looked  up  at  the  great  gates ;  the 
angels  opened  them,  and  we  went  in. 
The  mud  was  on  our  garments.  We 
walked  across  the  marble  floor,  and  up 
to  the  great  throne.  Then  the  angels 
divided  us.  Her,  they  set  upon  the  top 
step,  but  me,  upon  the  bottom ;  for,  they 
said,  "  Last  time  this  woman  came  here 
she  left  red  foot-marks  on  the  floor  ;  we 
had  to  wash  them  out  with  our  tears. 
Let  her  not  go  up." 

Then  she,  with  whom  I  came,  looked 
back,  and  stretched  out  her  hand  to  me ; 
and  I  went  and  stood  beside  her.  And 
the  angels,  they,  the  shining  ones  who 
never  sinned  and  never  suffered,  walked 
by  us  to  and  fro  and  up  and  down  ;  I 
think  we  should  have  felt  a  little  lonely 
there  if  it  had  not  been  for  one  another, 
the  angels  were  so  bright. 

God  asked  me  what  I  had  come  for ; 


1 28  "  /  TIIO UGHT  I  stood:' 

and  I  drew  my  sister  forward  a  little  that 
he  might  see  her. 

God  said,  "  How  is  it  you  are  here 
together  to-day  ?  " 

I  said,  "  She  was  upon  the  ground  in 
the  street,  and  they  passed  over  her ;  I 
lay  down  by  her,  and  she  put  her  arms 
around  my  neck,  and  so  I  lifted  her,  and 
we  two  rose  together." 

God  said,  "  Whom  are  you  now  come 
to  accuse  before  me  ?  " 

1  said,  *'We  are  come  to  accuse  no 
man." 

And  God  bent,  and  said,  "  My  chil- 
dren— what  is  it  that  ye  seek?" 

And  she  beside  me  drew  my  hand  that 
I  should  speak  for  both. 

I  said,  "We  have  come  to  ask  that 
thou  shouldst  speak  to  Man,  our 
brother,  and  give  us  a  message  for 
him  that  he  might  understand,  and 
that  he  might " 


"/  THOUGHT  I  STOOD r  129 

God  said,  "  Go,  take  the  message 
down  to  him  !  " 

I  said,  "But  what  is  the  message  ?  " 

God  said,  "  Upon  your  hearts  it  is 
written  ;  take  it  down  to  him." 

And  we  turned  to  go ;  the  angels 
went  with  us  to  the  door.  They  looked 
at  us. 

And  one  said — "  Ai !  but  their  dresses 
are  beautiful ! " 

And  the  other  said,  "  I  thought  it  was 
mire  when  they  came  in,  but  see,  it  is  all 
golden ! " 

But  another  said,  "  Hush,  it  is  the 
light  from  their  faces ! " 

And  we  went  down  to  him. 

AlassiOy  Italy. 


THE  SUNLIGHT  LAY  ACROSS  MY 
BED. 


THE   SUNLIGHT  LAY  ACROSS  31 Y 
BED, 

N  the  dark  one  night  I  lay 
upon  my  bed.  I  heard  the 
pohceman's  feet  beat  on  the 
pavement  ;  I  heard  the 
wheels  of  carriages  roll  home  from 
houses    of    entertainment ;     I    heard    a 

woman's   laugh    below  my  window 

and  then  I  fell  asleep.  And  in  the  dark 
I  dreamt  a  dream.  I  dreamt  God  took 
my  soul  to  Hell. 


Hell  was  a  fair  place  ;   the  water  of 
the  lake  was  blue. 

I  said  to  God,  "  I  like  this  place." 


134  THE  SUNLIGHT  LAY 

God  said,  "  Ay,  dost  thou  ! " 

Bird"  sang,  turf  came  to  the  water- 
edge,  and  trees  grew  from  it.  Away 
off  among  the  trees  I  saw  beautiful 
women  walking.  Their  clothes  were  of 
many  delicate  colours  and  clung  to  them, 
and  they  were  tall  and  graceful  and  had 
yellow  hair.  Their  robes  trailed  over 
the  grass.  They  glided  in  and  out 
among  the  trees,  and  over  their  heads 
hung  yellow  fruit  like  large  pears  of 
melted  gold. 

I  said,  "It  is  very  fair ;  I  would  go 
up  and  taste  the " 

God  said,  "  Wait." 

And  after  a  while  I  noticed  a  very  fair 
woman  pass  :  she  looked  this  way  and 
that,  and  drew  down  a  branch,  and  it 
seemed  she  kissed  the  fruit  upon  it 
softly,  and  went  on  her  way,  and  her 
dress  made  no  rustle  as  she  passed  over 
the   grass.      And    when    I   saw   her  no 


ACROSS  MY  BED.  135 

more,  from  among  the  stems  came 
another  woman  fair  as  she  had  been,  in 
a  delicate  tinted  robe  ;  she  looked  this 
way  and  that.  When  she  saw  no  one 
there  she  drew  down  the  fruit,  and  when 
she  had  looked  over  it  to  find  a  place, 
she  put  her  mouth  to  it  softly,  and  went 
away.  And  I  saw  other  and  other 
women  come,  making  no  noise,  and  they 
glided  away  also  over  the  grass. 

And  I  said  to  God,  "  What  are  they 
doing  ?  " 

God  said,  *'  They  are  poisoning." 

And  I  said,  "  How  .?  " 

God  said,  "  They  touch  it  with  their 
lips,  when  they  have  made  a  tiny  wound 
in  it  with  their  fore  teeth  they  set  in  it 
that  which  is  under  their  tongues  :  they 
close  it  with  their  lip — that  no  man  may 
see  the  place,  and  pass  on." 

1  said  to  God,  "  Why  do  they  do  it  }  " 

GoJ  said,  "  That  another  may  not  eat" 


136  THE  SUNLIGHT  LA  V 

I  said  to  God,  "  But  if  they  poison 
all  then  none  dare  eat ;  what  do  they 
gain?" 

God  said,  "  Nothing." 

I  said,  "  Are  they  not  afraid  they 
themselves  may  bite  where  another 
has  bitten  ? " 

God  said,  "  They  are  afraid.  In  Hell 
all  men  fear." 

He  called  me  further.  And  the 
water  of  the  lake  seemed  less  blue. 

Then,  to  the  right  among  the  trees 
were  men  working.  And  I  said  to  God, 
"  I  should  like  to  go  and  work  with  them. 
Hell  must  be  a  very  fruitful  place,  the 
grass  is  so  green." 

God  said,  "  Nothing  grows  in  the 
garden  they  are  making." 

We  stood  looking ;  and  I  saw 
them  working  among  the  bushes, 
digging  holes,  but  in  them  they  set 
nothing ;    and   when   they  had    covered 


ACROSS  MY  BED.  137 

them  with  sticks  and  earth  each  went 
a  way  off  and  sat  behind  the  bushes 
watching ;  and  I  noticed  that  as  each 
walked  he  set  his  foot  down  carefully- 
looking  where  he  trod.  I  said  to  God, 
*'  What  are  they  doing  ?  " 

God  said,  "  Making  pitfalls  into  which 
their  fellows  may  sink." 

I  said   to  God,    "  Why   do   they   do 
it?" 

God  said,  '*  Because  each  thinks  that 
when  his  brother  falls  he  will  rise." 

I  said  to  God,  "  How  will  he  rise  ?" 

God  said,  "  He  will  not  rise." 

And    I    saw   their   eyes   gleam   from 
behind  the  bushes. 

I  said  to  God,  "Are  these  men  sane?" 

God  said,  "  They  are  not  sane  ;  there 
is  no  sane  man  in  Hell." 

And  he  told  me  to  come  further. 

And  I  looked  where  I  trod. 

And    we    came    where    Hell    opened 


T38  THE  SUNLIGHT  LA  Y 

into  a  plain,  and  a  great  house  stood 
there.  Marble  pillars  upheld  the  roof, 
and  white  marble  steps  led  up  to  it. 
The  wind  of  heaven  blew  through  it. 
Only  at  the  back  hung  a  thick  curtain. 
Fair  men  and  women  there  feasted  at 
long  tables.  They  danced,  and  I  saw 
the  robes  of  women  flutter  in  the  air 
and  heard  the  laugh  of  strong  men. 
What  they  feasted  with  was  wine  ;  they 
drew  it  from  large  jars  which  stood 
somewhat  in  the  background,  and  I 
saw  the  wine  sparkle  as  they  drew  it. 
And  I  said  to  God,  "  I  should  like  to  go 
up  and  drink."  And  God  said,  "Wait." 
And  I  saw  men  coming  in  to  the  Banquet 
House ;  they  came  in  from  the  back 
and  lifted  the  corner  of  the  curtain 
at  the  sides  and  crept  in  quickly;  and 
they  let  the  curtain  fall  behind  them  ; 
they  bore  great  jars  they  could 
hardly  carry.     And  the  men  and  women 


ACROSS  MY  BED.  139 

crowded  round  them,  and  the  new-- 
comers  opened  their  jars  and  gave  them 
of  the  wine  to  drink  ;  and  I  saw  that 
the  women  drank  even  more  greedily 
than  the  men.  And  when  others  had 
well  drunken  they  set  the  jars  among 
the  old  ones  beside  the  wall,  and  took 
their  places  at  the  table.  And  I  saw 
that  some  of  the  jars  were  very  old  and 
mildewed  and  dusty,  but  others  had  still 
drops  of  new  must  on  them  and  shone 
from  the  furnace. 

And  I  said  to  God,  "  What  is  that  ?  " 
For  amid  the  sound  of  the  singing,  and 
over  the  dancing  of  feet,  and  over  the 
laughing  across  the  wine-cups  I  heard 
a  cry. 

And  God  said,  "  Stand  a  way  off." 

And  he  took  me  where  I  saw   both 

sides  of  the  curtain.     Behind  the  house 

was  the  wine-press  where  the  wine  was 

made.      I  saw  the  grapes  crushed,  and 


I40  THE  SUNLIGHT  LA  V 

I  heard  them  cry.  I  said,  "  Do  not  they 
on  the  other  side  hear  it  ?  " 

God  said,  "  The  curtain  is  thick  ;  they 
are  feasting." 

And  I  said,  "  But  the  men  who  came 
in  last.     They  saw  ?  " 

God  said,  "  They  let  the  curtain  fall 
behind  them — and  they  forget !  " 

I  said,  "  How  came  they  by  their  jars 
of  wine  ?  " 

God  said,  "In  the  treading  of  the 
press  these  are  they  who  came  to  the 
top ;  they  have  climbed  out  over  the 
edge,  and  filled  their  jars  from  below, 
and  have  gone  into  the  house." 

And  I  said,  "  And  if  they  had  fallen  as 
they  climbed ?  " 

God  said,  "  They  had  been  wine." 

I  stood  a  way  off  watching  in  the  sun- 
shine, and  I  shivered. 

God  lay  in  the  sunshine  watching  too. 

Then    there    rose     one    amonof    the 


ACROSS  MV  BED.  141 

feasters,  who  said,  "My  brethren,  let  us 
pray ! 

And  all  the  men  and  women  rose : 
and  strong  men  bowed  their  heads,  and 
mothers  folded  their  little  children's 
hands  together,  and  turned  their  faces 
upwards,  to  the  roof.  And  he  who  first 
had  risen  stood  at  the  table  head,  and 
stretched  out  both  his  hands,  and  his 
beard  was  long  and  white,  and  his 
sleeves  and  his  beard  had  been  dipped 
in  wine  ;  and  because  the  sleeves  were 
wide  and  full  they  held  much  wine,  and 
it  dropped  down  upon  the  floor. 

And  he  cried,  "  My  brothers  and  my 
sisters,  let  us  pray." 

And  all  the  men  and  women  answered, 
*'  Let  us  pray." 

He  cried,  "  For  this  fair  banquet- 
house  we  thank  thee,  Lord." 

And  all  the  men  and  women  said 
"We  thank  thee,  Lord." 


142  THE  SUNLIGHT  LA  V 

**  Thine  is  this  house,  dear  Lord." 

"  Thine  is  this  house." 

"  For  us  hast  thou  made  it." 

"  For  us." 

"  Oh,  fill  our  jars  with  wine,  dear  Lord." 

"  Our  jars  with  wine." 

"  Give  peace  and  plenty  in  our  time, 
dear  Lord." 

'*  Peace  and  plenty  in  our  time" 

I  said  to  God,  "  Whom  is  it  they  are 
talking  to  ?  "  God  said,  "  Do  /  know 
whom  they  speak  of  ?  "  And  I  saw  they 
were  looking  up  at  the  roof;  but  out  in 
the  sunshine,  God  lay. 

** dear  Lord  1 " 

"  Dear  Lord." 

"  Our  children's  children.  Lord,  shall 
rise  and  call  thee  blessed." 

"  Our  children's  children,  Lord." 

I  said  to  God,  "  The  grapes  are  crying  ! " 

God  said,  "Still!    /    hear    them" 

"  shall  call  thee  blessed." 


ACROSS  MY  BED.  143 

"  Shall  call  thee  blessed." 

"  Pour  forth  more  wine  upon  us, 
Lord." 

*'  More  wine." 

"  More  wine." 

"  More  wine !  " 

"  Wine  ! ! " 

"Wine!!" 

"  Wine  ! ! ! " 

"  Dear  Lord  !  " 

Then  men  and  women  sat  down  and 
the  feast  went  on.  And  mothers  poured 
out  wine  and  fed  their  little  children 
with  it,  and  men  held  up  the  cup  to 
women's  lips  and  cried,  "  Beloved  ! 
drink,"  and  women  filled  their  lovers' 
flagons  and  held  them  up ;  and  yet  the 
feast  went  on. 

And  after  a  while  I  looked,  and  I 
saw  the  curtain  that  hung  behind  the 
house  moving. 

1  said  to  God,  "  Is  it  a  wind?  " 


144  THE  SUNLIGHT  LA  Y 

God  said,  "  A  wind." 
And  it  seemed  to  me,  that  against  the 
curtain  I  saw  pressed  the  forms  of  men 
and  women.  And  after  a  while  the 
feasters  saw  it  move,  and  they  whispered, 
one  to  another.  Then  some  rose  and 
gathered  the  most  worn-out  cups, 
and  into  them  they  put  what  was 
left  at  the  bottom  of  other  vessels. 
Mothers  whispered  to  their  children, 
"  Do  not  drink  all,  save  a  little  drop 
when  )ou  have  drunk."  And  when  they 
had  collected  all  the  dregs  they  slipped 
the  cups  out  under  the  bottom  of  the 
curtain  without  lifting  it.  After  a  while 
the  curtain  left  off  moving. 

I  said  to  God,  "  How  is  it  so  quiet  .'*" 
He  said,  **  They  have  gone  away  to 
drink  it." 

I  said,  "  They  drink  it — their  own  !  " 
God  said,  "It  comes  from  this  side  of 
the  curtain,  and  they  are  very  thirsty." 


A  CROSS  M  V  BED.  145 

Then  the  feast  went  on,  and  after  a 
while  I  saw  a  small,  white  hand  slipped  in 
below  the  curtain's  edge  along  the  floor; 
and  it  motioned  towards  the  wine  jars. 

And  I  said  to  God,  "  Why  is  that 
hand  so  bloodless  ?  " 

And  God  said,  "It  is  a  wine-pressed 
hand." 

And  men  saw  it  and  started  to  their 
feet ;  and  women  cried,  and  ran  to  the 
great  wine  jars,  and  threw  their  arms 
around  them,  and  cried,  "  Ours,  our 
own,  our  beloved ! "  and  twined  their 
long  hair  about  them. 

I  said  to  God,  "  Why  are  they  fright- 
ened of  that  one  small  hand  ?  " 

God  answered,  "  Because  it  is  so 
white." 

And  men  ran  in  a  great  company 
towards  the  curtain,  and  strugi^led  there. 
I  heard  them  strike  upon  the  floor.  And 
when  they  moved  away  the  curtain  hung 


146  THE  SUNLIGHT  LA  V 

smooth  and  still ;  and  there  was  a  small 
stain  upon  the  floor. 

I  said  to  God,  "  Why  do  they  not 
wash  it  out  ?  " 

God  said,  "  They  cannot." 

And  they  took  small  stones  and  put 
them  down  alonor  the  edg^e  of  the  cur- 
tain  to  keep  it  down.  Then  the  men 
and  women  sat  down  again  at  the  tables. 

And  I  said  to  God,  "Will  those 
stones  keep  it  down  ?  " 

God  said,  "  What  think  you  ?  " 

I  said,  "  If  the  wind  blew " 

God  said,  "  If  the  wind  blew  ?  " 

And  the  feast  went  on. 

And  suddenly  I  cried  to  God,  "If 
one  should  rise  among  them,  even  of 
themselves,  and  start  up  from  the  table 
and  should  cast  away  his  cup,  and  cry, 
'  My  brothers  and  my  sisters,  stay !  what 

is  it  that  we  drink  ? ' and  with  his 

sword   should    cut   in    two   the  curtain, 


ACROSS  MY  BED.  147 

and  holding  wide  the  fragments,  cry, 
'  Brothers,  sisters,  see  !  it  is  not  wine, 
not  wine !  not  wine  !  My  brothers,  oh, 
my  sisters —  ! '  and  he  should  overturn 
the " 

God  said,  "  Be  still ! ,  see  there." 

I  looked :  before  the  banquet-house, 
among  the  grass,  I  saw  a  row  of  mounds, 
flowers  covered  them,  and  gilded  marble 
stood  at  their  heads.  I  asked  God  what 
they  were. 

He  answered,  "They  are  the  graves 
of  those  who  rose  up  at  the  feast  and 
cried." 

And  I  asked  God  how  they  came 
there. 

He  said,  "  The  men  of  the  banquet- 
house  rose  and  cast  them  down  back- 
wards." 

I  said,  '•  Who  buried  them  ?  " 
.    God  said,  "The  men  who  cast  them 
down." 


148  THE  SUNLIGHT  LA  V 

I  said,  "  How  came  it  that  they  threw 
them  down,  and  then  set  marble  over 
them  ?  " 

God  said,  "  Because  the  bones  cried 
out,  they  covered  them." 

And  among  the  grass  and  weeds  I 
saw  an  unburied  body  lying ;  and  I 
asked  God  why  it  was. 

God  said,  "  Because  it  was  thrown 
down  only  yesterday.  In  a  little  while, 
when  the  flesh  shall  have  fallen  from  its 
bones,  they  will  bury  it  also,  and  plant 
flowers  over  it." 

And  still  the  feast  went  on. 

Men  and  women  sat  at  the  tables 
quaffing  great  bowls.  Some  rose,  and 
threw  their  arms  about  each  other,  and 
danced  and  sang.  They  pledged  each 
other  in  the  wine,  and  kissed  each 
other's  blood-red  lips. 

H  igher  and  higher  grew  the  revels. 

Men,  when   they  had  drunk  till   they 


ACROSS  MY  BED.  149 

could  no  longer,  threw  what  was  left 
in  their  glasses  up  to  the  roof,  and  let 
it  fall  back  in  cascades.  Women  dyed 
their  children's  garments  in  the  wine, 
and  fed  them  on  it  till  their  tiny 
mouths  were  red.  Sometimes,  as  the 
dancers  whirled,  they  overturned  a 
vessel,  and  their  garments  were  be- 
spattered. Children  sat  upon  the  floor 
with  great  bowls  of  wine,  and  swam 
rose-leaves  on  it,  for  boats.  They 
put  their  hands  in  the  wine  and  blew 
largre  red  bubbles. 

And  higher  and  higher  grew  the 
revels,  and  wilder  the  dancing,  and 
louder  and  louder  the  singing.  But 
here  and  there  among  the  revellers 
were  those  who  did  not  revel.  I 
saw  that  at  the  tables  here  and  there 
were  men  who  sat  with  their  elbows 
on  the  board  and  hands  shading  their 
eyes ;    they   looked   into    the   wine-cup 


1 50  THE  SUNLIGH  T  LAY 

beneath  them,  and  did  not  drink.  And 
when  one  touched  them  lightly  on  the 
shoulder,  bidding  them  to  rise  and 
dance  and  sing,  they  started,  and  then 
looked  down,  and  sat  there  watching  the 
wine  in  the  cup,  but  they  did  not  move. 

And  here  and  there  I  saw  a  woman 
sit  apart.  The  others  danced  and  sang 
and  fed  their  children,  but  she  sat  silent 
with  her  head  aside  as  though  she 
listened.  Her  little  children  plucked 
her  gown  ;  she  did  not  see  them ;  she 
was  listening  to  some  sound,  but  she 
did  not  stir. 

The  revels  grew  higher.  Men  drank 
till  they  could  drink  no  longer,  and  lay 
their  heads  upon  the  table  sleeping 
heavily.  Women  who  could  dance  no 
more  leaned  back  on  the  benches  with 
their  heads  against  their  lovers'  shoulders. 
Little  children,  sick  with  wine,  lay  down 
upon  the  edges  of  their  mothers'  robes. 


ACROSS  MY  BED.  151 

Sometimes,  a  man  rose  suddenly,  and 
as  he  staggered  struck  the  tables  and 
overthrew  the  benches ;  some  leaned 
upon  the  balustrades  sick  unto  death. 
Here  and  there  one  rose  who  staggered 
to  the  wine  jars  and  lay  down  beside 
them.  He  turned  the  wine  tap,  but 
sleep  overcame  him  as  he  lay  there, 
and  the  wine  ran  out. 

Slowly  the  thin,  red  stream  ran  across 
the  white  marbled  floor ;  it  reached  the 
stone  steps ;  slowly,  slowly,  slowly  it 
trickled  down,  from  step  to  step,  from 
step  to  step  :  then  it  sank  into  the  earth. 
A  thin  white  smoke  rose  up  from  it. 

I  was  silent  ;  I  could  not  breathe  ; 
but  God  called  me  to  come  further. 

And  after  I  had  travelled  for  a 
while  I  came  where  on  seven  hills 
lay  the  ruins  of  a  mighty  banquet- 
house  larger  and  stronger  than  the 
one  which  I  had  seen  standing. 


THE  SUNLIGHT  LA  V 


I  said  to  God,  "  What  did  the  men 
rwho  built  it  here  ?" 

God  said,  "  They  feasted." 

I  said,  "  On  what  ?  " 

God  said,  "  On  wine." 

And  I  looked  ;  and  it  seemed  to  me 
that  behind  the  ruins  lay  still  a  large 
circular  hollow  within  the  earth  where 
a  foot  of  the  wine-press  had  stood. 

I  said  to  God,  "  How  came  it  that 
this  large  house  fell  ?  " 

God  said,  "  Because  the  earth  was 
sodden." 

He  called  me  to  come  further. 

And  at  last  we  came  upon  a  hill 
where  blue  waters  played,  and  white 
marble  lay  upon  the  earth.  I  said  to 
God,  "  What  was  here  once  ? " 

God  said,  "  A  pleasure  house." 

I  looked,  and  at  my  feet  great  pillars 
lay.  I  cried  aloud  for  joy  to  God, 
"  The  marble  blossoms  !  " 


ACROSS  MY  BED.  153 

God  said,  "  Ay,  'twas  a  fairy  house. 
There  has  not  been  one  Hke  to  it,  nor 
ever  shall  be.  The  pillars  and  the  porti- 
coes blossomed;  and  the  wine  cups  were 
as  gathered  flowers  :  on  this  side  all  the 
curtain  was  broidered  with  fair  designs, 
the  stitching  was  of  gold." 

I  said  to  God,  *'  How  came  it  that  it 
fell?" 

God  said,  *'  On  the  side  of  the  wine- 
press it  was  dark." 

And  as  we  travelled,  we  came  where 
lay  a  mighty  ridge  of  sand,  and  a  dark 
river  ran  there ;  and  there  rose  two  vast 
mounds. 

I  said  to  God,  "  They  are  very  mighty." 

God  said,  "  Ay,  exceeding  great." 

And  I  listened. 

God  asked  me  what  I  was  listening  to. 

And  I  said,  "  A  sound  of  weeping, 
and  I  hear  the  sound  of  strokes,  but  I 
cannot  tell  whence  it  comes." 


154  THE  SUNLIGHT  LA  Y 

God  said,  "It  is  the  echo  of  the 
wine-press  Hngering  still  among  the 
coping-stones  upon  the  mounds.  A 
banquet-house  stood  here." 

And  he  called  me  to  come  further. 

Upon  a  barren  hill-side,  where  the 
soil  was  arid,  God  called  me  to  stand 
still.     And  I  looked  around. 

God  said,  "  There  was  a  feasting- 
house  here  once  upon  a  time." 

I  said  to  God,  "  I  see  no  mark  of 
any ! " 

God  said,  "  There  was  not  left  one 
stone  upon  another  that  has  not  been 
thrown  down."  And  I  looked  round  ; 
and  on  the  hill-side  was  a  lonely  grave. 

I  said  to  God,  "  What  lies  there  }  " 

He  said,  "A  vine  truss,  bruised  in 
the  wine-press !  ** 

And  at  the  head  of  the  grave  stood 
a  cross,  and  on  its  foot  lay  a  crown  of 
thorns. 


A  CHOSS  M  Y  BED.  1 5  5 

And  as  I  turned  to  go,  I  looked 
backward.  The  wine-press  and  the 
banquet-house  were  gone  ;  but  the 
grave  yet  stood.     * 

And  when  I  came  to  the  edge  of  a 
long  ridge  there  opened  out  before  me 
a  wide  plain  of  sand.  And  when  I 
looked  downward  I  saw  great  stones 
lie  shattered  ;  and  the  desert  sand  had 
half  covered  them  over. 

I  said  to  God,  "  There  is  writing  on 
them,  but  I  cannot  read  it." 

And  God  blew  aside  the  desert  sand, 
and  I  read  the  writing :    "  Weighed  in 

the  balance,  and  found "  but  the  last 

word  was  wanting. 

And  I  said  to  God,  "  It  was  a  banquet- 
house  ?  " 

God  said,  "  Ay,  a  banquet-house." 
I  said,  "There  was  a  wine-press  here?" 
God  said,  "  There  was  a  wine-press." 
I  asked  no  further  question.     I   was 


156  THE  SUNLIGHT  LA  Y 

very  weary ;  I  shaded  my  eyes  with 
my  hand,  and  looked  through  the  pink 
evenino;^  li^ht. 

Far  off,  across  the  sand,  I  saw  two 
figures  standing.  With  wings  upfolded 
high  above  their  heads,  and  stern  faces 
set,  neither  man  nor  beast,  they  looked 
out  across  the  desert  sand,  watching, 
watching,  watching !  I  did  not  ask  God 
what  they  were,  for  I  knew  what  the 
answer  would  be. 

And,  further  and  yet  further,  in  the 
evening  light,  I  looked  with  my  shaded 
eyes. 

Far  off,  where  the  sands  were  thick 
and  heavy,  I  saw  a  solitary  pillar  stand- 
ing :  the  crown  had  fallen,  and  the  sand 
had  buried  it.  On  the  broken  pillar  sat 
a  grey  owl-of-the-desert,  with  folded 
wings  ;  and  in  the  evening  light  I  saw 
the  desert  fox  creep  past  it,  trailing  his 
brush  across  the  sand. 


ACROSS  MY  BED.  157 

Further,  yet  further,  as  I  looked 
across  the  desert,  I  saw  the  sand 
gathered  into  heaps  as  though  it 
covered  something. 

I  cried  to  God,  "  Oh,  I  am  so 
weary." 

God  said,  "  You  have  seen  only  one 
half  of  Hell." 

I  said,  "  I  cannot  see  more,  I  am 
afraid  of  Hell.  In  my  own  narrow  little 
path  I  dare  not  walk  because  I  think 
that  one  has  dug  a  pitfall  for  me  ;  and 
if  I  put  my  hand  to  take  a  fruit  I  draw 
it  back  again  because  I  think  it  has  been 
kissed  already.  If  I  look  out  across  the 
plains,  the  mounds  are  burial  heaps  ;  and 
when  I  pass  among  the  stones  I  hear 
them  crying  aloud.  When  I  see  men 
dancing  I  hear  the  time  beaten  in  with 
sobs  ;  and  their  wine  is  living !  Oh,  I 
cannot  bear  Hell ! " 

God  said,  "  Where  will  you  go  ?  " 


158  THE  SUNLIGHT  LA  Y 

I  said  "  To  the  earth  from  which  I 
came  ;  it  was  better  there." 

And  God  laughed  at  me ;  and  I 
wondered  why  he  laughed. 

God  said,  "  Come,  and  I  will  show 
you  Heaven." 

And  partly  I  awoke.  It  was  still  and 
dark  ;  the  sound  of  the  carriages  had 
died  in  the  street ;  the  woman  who 
laughed  was  gone ;  and  the  policeman's 
tread  was  heard  no  more.  In  the  dark 
it  seemed  as  if  a  great  hand  lay  upon 
my  heart,  and  crushed  it.  I  tried  to 
breathe  and  tossed  from  side  to  side  ; 
and  then  again  I  fell  asleep,  and 
dreamed. 

God  took  me  to  the  edge  of  that 
world.  It  ended.  I  looked  down.  The 
gulf,  it  seemed  to  me,  was  fathomless ; 
and  then  I  saw  two  bridges  crossing  it 
that  both  sloped  upwards. 


ACROSS  MY  BED.  159 

I  said  to  God,  "Is  there  no  other  way 
by  which  men  cross  it  ?  " 

God  said,  **  One ;  it  rises  far  from 
here  and  slopes  straight  upwards. 

I  asked  God  what  the  bridges'  names 
were. 

God  said,  "  What  matter  for  the 
names  ?  Call  them  the  Good,  the 
True,  the  Beautiful,  if  you  will — you 
will  yet  not  understand  them." 

I  asked  God  how  it  was  I  could  not 
see  the  third. 

God  said,  "It  is  seen  only  by  those 
who  climb  it." 

I  said,  "  Do  they  all  lead  to  one 
heaven  }  " 

God  said,  "  All  Heaven  is  one : 
nevertheless  some  parts  are  higher 
than  others ;  those  who  reach  the 
higher  may  always  go  down  to  rest  in 
the  lower ;  but  those  in  the  lower  may 
not    have    strength    to    climb    to    the 


i6o  THE  SUNLIGHT  LA  Y 

higher ;  nevertheless  the  h'ght  is  all 
one. 

And  I  saw  over  the  bridge  nearest 
me,  which  was  wider  than  the  other, 
countless  footmarks  go.  I  asked  God 
why  so  many  went  over  it. 

God  said,  "It  slopes  less  deeply,  and 
leads  to  the  first  heaven." 

And  I  saw  that  some  of  the  foot- 
marks were  of  feet  returning.  I  asked 
God  how  it  was. 

He  said,  "  No  man  who  has  once 
entered  Heaven  ever  leaves  it  ;  but 
some,  when  they  have  gone  half  way, 
turn  back,  because  they  are  afraid  there 
is  no  land  beyond." 

I  said,  "  Has  none  ever  returned  ?  " 

God  said,  "  No  ;  once  in  Heaven  al- 
ways in  Heaven." 

And  God  took  me  over.  And  when 
we  came  to  one  of  the  great  doors — for 
Heaven  has  more  doors  than  one,  and 


ACROSS  MY  BED.  i6i 

they  are  all  open — the  posts  rose  up  so 
high  on  either  side  I  could  not  see  the 
top,  nor  indeed  if  there  were  any. 

And  it  seemed  to  me  so  wide  that  all 
Hell  could  go  in  through  it. 

I  said  to  God,  "  Which  is  the  larger, 
Heaven  or  Hell  .-*" 

God  said,  "  Hell  is  as  wide,  but 
Heaven  is  deeper.  All  Hell  could  be 
engulfed  in  Heaven,  but  all  Heaven 
could  not  be  engulfed  in  Hell." 

And  we  entered.  It  was  a  still  great 
land.  The  mountains  rose  on  every 
hand,  and  there  was  a  pale  clear 
light;  and  I  saw  it  came  from  the 
rocks  and  stones.  I  asked  God  how 
it  was. 

But  God  did  not  answer  me. 

I  looked  and  wondered,  for  I  had 
thought  Heaven  would  be  otherwise. 
And  after  a  while  it  began  to  grow 
brighter,  as  if   the  day    were    breaking, 


i62  THE  SUNLIGHT  LA  V 

and  I  asked  God  if  the  sun  were  not 
going  to  rise. 

God  said,  "  No ;  we  are  coming  to 
where  the  people  are." 

And  as  we  went  on  it  grew  brighter 
and  brighter  till  it  was  burning  day  ;  and 
on  the  rock  were  flowers  blooming,  and 
trees  blossomed  at  the  roadside ;  and 
streams  of  water  ran  everywhere,  and  I 
heard  the  birds  singing ;  I  asked  God 
where  they  were. 

God  said,  "  It  is  the  people  calling  to 
one  another." 

And  when  we  came  nearer  I  saw  them 
walking,  and  they  shone  as  they  walked. 
I  asked  God  how  it  was  they  wore  no 
covering. 

God  said,  '*  Because  all  their  body 
gives  the  light ;  they  dare  not  cover  any 
part. 

And  I  asked  God  what  they  were 
doinor.  > 


ACROSS  MY  BED.  163 

God  said,  "  Shining  on  the  plants 
that  they  may  grow." 

And  I  saw  that  some  were  working  in 
companies,  and  some  alone,  but  most 
were  in  twos,  sometimes  two  men  and 
sometimes  two  women  ;  but  generally 
there  was  one  man  and  one  woman  ; 
and  I  asked  God  how  it  was. 

God  said,  "  When  one  man  and  one 
woman  shine  together,  it  makes  the 
most  perfect  light.  Many  plants  need 
that  for  their  growing.  Nevertheless, 
there  are  more  kinds  of  piants  in  Heaven 
than  one,  and  they  need  many  kinds  of 

light." 

And  one  from  among  the  people  came 
running  towards  me  ;  and  when  he  came 
near  it  seemed  to  me  that  he  and  I 
had  played  together  when  we  were  little 
children,  and  that  we  had  been  born  on 
the  same  day.  And  I  told  God  what 
I  felt  ;  God  said.  "  All  men  feel  so  in 


i64  THE  SUNLIGHT  LAY 

Heaven  when  another  comes  towards 
them." 

And  he  who  ran  towards  me  held  my 
hand,  and  led  me  through  the  bright 
lights.  And  when  we  came  among  the 
trees  he  sang  aloud,  and  his  companion 
answered,  and  it  was  a  woman,  and  he 
showed  me  to  her.  She  said,  "  He 
must  have  water"  ;  and  she  took  some 
in  her  hands,  and  fed  me  (I  had  been 
afraid  to  drink  of  the  water  in  Hell), 
and  they  gathered  fruit  for  me,  and 
gave  it  me  to  eat.  They  said,  "  We 
shone  long  to  make  it  ripen,"  and  they 
laughed  together  as  they  saw  me  eat  it. 

The  man  said,  "He  is  very  weary ; 
he  must  sleep"  (for  I  had  not  dared  to 
sleep  in  Hell),  and  he  laid  my  head  on 
his  companion's  knee  and  spread  her 
hair  out  over  me.  I  slept,  and  all  the 
while  in  my  sleep  I  thought  I  heard 
the  birds  callinor  across  me.     And  when 


ACROSS  MY  BED.  165 

I  woke  it  was  like  early  murnin*^.  with 
the  dew  on  everything. 

And  the  man  took  my  hand  and  led 
me  to  a  hidden  spot  among  the  rocks. 
The  ground  was  very  hard,  but  out  of 
it  were  sprouting  tiny  plants,  and  there 
was  a  little  stream  running.  He  said, 
**  This  is  a  garden  we  are  making,  no 
one  else  knows  of  it.  We  shine  here 
every  day  ;  see,  the  ground  has  cracked 
with  our  shining,  and  this  litde  stream 
is  burstinjT-  out.  See,  the  flowers  are 
growing." 

And  he  climbed  on  the  rocks  and 
picked  from  above  two  little  flowers 
with  dew  on  them,  and  gave  them  to 
me.  And  I  took  one  in  each  hand  ;  my 
hands  shone  as  I  held  them.  He  said, 
"  This  garden  is  for  all  when  it  is 
finished."  And  he  went  away  to  his 
companion,  and  I  went  out  into  the 
great  pathway. 


i66  THE  SUNLIGHT  LA  V 

And  as  I  walked  in  the  light  I  heard 
a  loud  sound  of  much  singing.  And 
when  I  came  nearer  I  saw  one  with 
closed  eyes,  singing,  and  his  fellows 
were  standing  round  him  ;  and  the  light 
on  the  closed  eyes  was  brighter  than 
anything  I  had  seen  in  Heaven.  I 
asked  one  who  it  was.  And  he  said, 
"Hush!     Our  singing  bird." 

And  I  asked  why  the  eyes  shone  so. 

And  he  said,  "  They  cannot  see,  and 
we  have  kissed  them  till  they  shone  so." 

And  the  people  gathered  closer  round 
him. 

And  when  I  went  a  little  further 
I  saw  a  crowd  crossing  among  the 
^trees  of  light  with  great  laughter. 
When  they  came  close  I  saw  they 
carried  one  without  hands  or  feet. 
And  a  light  came  from  the  maimed 
limbs  so  bright  that  I  could  not  look 
at  them. 


ACROSS  MY  BED.  167 

And  I  said  to  one,  "  What  is  it  ?  " 

He  answered,  "  This  is  our  brother 
who  once  fell  and  lost  his  hands  and 
feet,  and  since  then  he  cannot  help  him- 
self ;  but  we  have  touched  the  maimed 
stumps  so  often  that  now  they  shine 
brighter  than  anything  in  Heaven. 
We  pass  him  on  that  he  may  shine  on 
things  that  need  much  heat.  No  one  is 
allowed  to  keep  him  long,  he  belongs 
to  all " ;  and  they  went  on  among  the 
trees. 

I  said  to  God,  "  This  is  a  strange 
land.  I  had  thought  blindness  and 
maimedness  were  great  evils.  Here 
men  make  them  to  a  rejoicing." 

"  God  said,  *'  Didst  thou  then  think 
that  love  had  need  of  eyes  and  hands  !  " 

And  I  walked  down  the  shining  way 
with  palms  on  either  hand.  I  said  to 
God,  "  Ever  since  I  was  a  little  child 
and  sat  alone  and  cried,  I  have  dreamed 


1 68  THE  SUNLIGHT  LA  V 

of  this  land,  and  now  I  will  not  go  away 
again.  I  will  stay  here  and  shine." 
And  I  began  to  take  off  my  garments, 
that  I  might  shine  as  others  in  that 
land  ;  but  when  I  looked  down  I  saw 
my  body  gave  no  light.  I  said  to 
God,  "How  is  it?" 

God  said,  "Is  there  no  dark  blood 
in  your  heart ;  is  it  bitter  against 
none  ?" 

And  I  said,  "Yes— — ";  and  I 
thought — "  Now  is  the  time  when  I 
will  tell  God,  that  which  I  have  been, 
meaning  to  tell  him  all  along,  how 
badly  my  fellow-men  have  treated  me. 
How  they  have  misunderstood  me. 
How  I  have  intended  to  be  magnani- 
mous and  generous  to  them,   and  they 

."     And  I  began  to  tell  God  ;  but 

when  I  looked  down  all  the  flowers  were 
withering  under  my  breath,  and  I  was 
silent. 


ACROSS  MY  BED.  169 

And  God  called  me  to  come  up 
higher,  and  I  gathered  my  mantle  about 
me  and  followed  him. 

And  the  rocks  grew  higher  and 
steeper  on  every  sid^  ;  and  we  came 
at  last  to  a  place  where  a  great  moun- 
tain rose,  whose  top  was  lost  in  the 
clouds.  And  on  its  side  I  saw  men 
working ;  and  they  picked  at  the  earth 
with  huge  picks  ;  and  I  saw  that  they 
laboured  mightily.  And  some  laboured 
in  companies,  but  most  laboured  singly. 
And  I  saw  the  drops  of  sweat  fall  from 
their  foreheads,  and  the  muscles  of  their 
arms  stand  out  with  labour.  And  I 
said,  "  I  had  not  thought  in  heaven  to 
see  men  labour  so ! "  And  I  thought 
of  the  garden  where  men  sang  and 
loved,  and  I  wondered  that  any  should, 
choose  to  labour  on  that  bare  mountain- 
side. And  I  saw  upon  the  foreheads 
of  the  men  as  they  worked  a  light,  and 


I70  THE  SUNLIGHT  LA  Y 

the  drops  which  fell  from  them  as  they 
worked  had  light. 

And  I  asked  God  what  they  were 
seeking  for. 

And  God  touched  my  eyes,  and  I 
saw  that  what  they  found  were  small 
stones,  which  had  been  too  bright  for 
me  to  see  before  ;  and  I  saw  that  the 
light  of  the  stones  and  the  light  on  the 
men's  foreheads  was  the  same.  And 
I  saw  that  when  one  found  a  stone  he 
passed  it  on  to  his  fellow,  and  he  to 
another,  and  he  to  another.  No  man 
kept  the  stone  he  found.  And  at  times 
they  gathered  in  great  company  about 
when  a  large  stone  was  found,  and 
raised  a  great  shout  so  that  the  sky 
rang  ;  then  they  worked  on  again. 

And  I  asked  God  what  they  did  with 
the  stones  they  found  at  last.  Then 
God  touched  my  eyes  again  to  make 
them  stronger ;    and    I   looked,  and    at 


ACROSS  MV  BED.  171 

my  very  feet  was  a  mighty  crown. 
The  light  streamed  out  from  it. 

God  said,  "  Each  stone  as  they  find  it 
is  set  here." 

And  the  crown  was  wrought  according 
to  a  marvellous  pattern ;  one  pattern 
ran  through  all,  yet  each  part  was 
different. 

I  said  to  God,  "  How  does  each  man 
know  where  to  set  his  stone,  so  that 
the  pattern  is  worked  out  ?  " 

God  said,  "  Because  in  the  light  his 
forehead  sheds  each  man  sees  faintly 
outlined  that  full  crown." 

And  I  said,  "  But  how  is  it  that  each 
stone  is  joined  along  its  edges  to  its 
fellows,  so  that  there  is  no  seam  any- 
where }  " 

God  said,  "  The  stones  are  alive ; 
they  grow." 

And  I  said,  "  But  what  does  each  man 
gain  by  his  working  ?" 


172  THE  SUNLIGHT  LAY 

God  says,  "He  sees  his  outline  filled." 

I  said,  "  But  those  stones  which  are 
last  set  cover  those  which  were  first ; 
and  those  will  again  be  covered  by  those 
which  come  later." 

God  said,  "  They  are  covered,  but  not 
hid.  The  light  is  the  light  of  all.  With- 
out the  first,  no  last." 

And  I  said  to  God,  "  When  will  this 
crown  be  ended  ?  " 

And  God  said,  "  Look  up!" 

I  looked  up ;  and  I  saw  the  mountain 
tower  above  me,  but  its  summit  I  could 
not  see ;  it  was  lost  in  the  clouds. 

God  said  no  more. 

And  I  looked  at  the  crown :  then  a 
longing  seized  me.  Like  the  passion  of 
a  mother  for  the  child  whom  death  has 
taken  ;  like  the  yearning  of  a  friend  for 
the  friend  whom  life  has  buried ;  like 
the  hunger  of  dying  eyes  for  a  life  that 
is  slipping ;  like  the  thirst  of  a  soul  for 


ACROSS  MY  BED.  173 

love  at  its  first  spring  waking,  so,  but 
fiercer  was  the  longing  in  me. 

I  cried  to  God,  "  I  too  will  work  here; 
I  too  will  set  stones  in  the  wonderful 
pattern  ;  it  shall  grow  beneath  my  hand. 
And  if  it  be  that,  labouring  here  for 
years,  I  should  not  find  one  stone,  at 
least  I  will  be  with  the  men  that  labour 
here.  I  shall  hear  their  shout  of  joy- 
when  each  stone  is  found ;  I  shall  join  in 
their  triumph  I  shall  shout  among  them; 
I  shall  see  the  crown  grow."  So  great 
was  my  longing  as  I  looked  at  the 
crown,  I  thought  a  faint  light  fell  from 
my  forehead  also. 

God  said,  "  Do  you  not  hear  the 
singing  in  the  gardens  ?  " 

I  said,  "No,  I  hear  nothing ;  I  see 
only  the  crown."  And  I  was  dumb 
with  longing  ;  I  forgot  all  the  flowers  of 
the  lower  Heaven  and  the  singing  there. 
And  I  ran  forward,  and  threw  my  mantle 


174  THE  SUNLIGHT  LA  Y 

on  the  earth  and  bent  to  seize  one  of  the 
mighty  tools  which  lay  there.  I  could 
not  lift  it  from  the  earth. 

God  said,  "  Where  hast  thou  earned 
the  strength  to  raise  it  ?  Take  up  thy 
mantle." 

And  I  took  up  my  mantle  and  fol- 
lowed where  God  called  me ;  but  I 
looked  back,  and  I  saw  the  crown 
burning,  my  crown  that  I  had  loved. 

Higher  and  higher  we  climbed,  and  the 
air  grew  thinner.  Not  a  tree  or  plant 
was  on  the  bare  rocks,  and  the  stillness 
was  unbroken.  My  breath  came  hard 
and  quick,  and  the  blood  crept  within 
my  finger-tips.  I  said  to  God,  "  Is  this 
Heaven  ?" 

God  said,  "  Yes  ;  it  is  the  highest." 

And  still  we  climbed.  I  said  to  God, 
"  I  cannot  breathe  so  high." 

God  said,  *'  Because  the  air  is  pure  ?  " 

And   my  head  grew  dizzy,  and  as  I 


ACROSS  MY  BED.  175 

climbed  the  blood  burst  from  my  finger- 
tips. 

Then  we  came  out  upon  a  lonely 
mountain-top. 

No  living  being  moved  there ;  but 
far  off  on  a  solitary  peak  I  saw  a 
lonely  figure  standing.  Whether  it  were 
man  or  woman  I  could  not  tell ;  for 
partly  it  seemed  the  figure  of  a  woman, 
but  its  limbs  were  the  mighty  limbs  of 
a  man.  I  asked  God  whether  it  was 
man  or  woman. 

God  said,  "In  the  least  Heaven  sex 
reigns  supreme  ;  in  the  higher  it  is  not 
noticed ;  but  in  the  highest  it  does  not 
exist." 

And  I  saw  the  figure  bend  over  its 
work,  and  labour  mightily,  but  what  it 
laboured  at  I  could  not  see. 

I  said  to  God,  *'  How  came  it  here  ?  " 

God  said,  "  By  a  bloody  stair.  Step 
by  step  it  mounted  from  the  lowest  Hell, 


176  THE  SUNLIGHT  LAY 

and  day  by  day  as  Hell  grew  farther 
and  Heaven  no  nearer,  it  hung  alone 
between  two  worlds.  Hour  by  hour  ir^ 
that  bitter  struggle  its  limbs  grew  larger, 
till  there  fell  from  it  rag  by  rag  the  gar- 
ments which  it  started  with.  Drops  fell 
from  its  eyes  as  it  strained  them ;  each 
step  it  climbed  was  wet  with  blood. 
Then  it  came  out  here." 

And  I  thought  of  the  garden  where  men 
sang  with  their  arms  around  one  another; 
and  the  mountain-side  where  they 
worked  in  company.     And  I  shuddered. 

And  I  said,  "  Is  it  not  terribly  alone 
here  .'* " 

God  said,  "  It  is  never  alone !  " 

I  said,  "  What  has  it  for  all  its  labour  ? 
I  see  nothing  return  to  it." 

Then  God  touched  my  eyes,  and  I 
saw  stretched  out  beneath  us  the  plains 
of  Heaven  and  Hell,  and  all  that  was 
within  them. 


ACROSS  MY  BLD.  177 

God  said,  "  From  that  lone  height  on 
which  he  stands,  all  things  are  open. 
To  him  is  clear  the  shining  in  the 
garden,  he  sees  the  flower  break  forth 
and  the  streams  sparkle  ;  no  shout  is 
raised  upon  the  mountain-side  but  his  ear 
may  hear  it.  He  sees  the  crown  grow 
and  the  light  shoot  from  it.  All  Hell  is 
open  to  him.  He  sees  the  paths  mount 
upwards.  To  him,  Hell  is  the  seed 
ground  from  which  Heaven  springs. 
He  sees  the  sap  ascending." 

And  I  saw  the  ficrure  bend  over  its 
work,  and  the  light  from  its  face  fell 
upon  it. 

And  I  said  to  God,  "What  is  it 
making  ?  " 

And  God  said,  "  Music!" 

And  he  touched  my  ears,  and  I  heard 
it. 

And  after  a  long  while  I  whispered  to 
God,  "  This  is  Heaven." 
12 


178  THE  SUNLIGHT  LA  V 

And  God  asked  me  why  I  was  crying. 
But  I  could  not  answer  for  joy. 

And  the  face  turned  from  its  work, 
and  the  light  fell  upon  me.  Then  it 
grew  so  bright  I  could  not  see  things 
separately ;  and  which  were  God,  or  the 
man,  or  I,  I  could  not  tell  ;  we  were  all 
blended.  I  cried  to  God,  "Where  are 
you  ? "  but  there  was  no  answer,  only 
music  and  light. 

Afterwards,  when  it  had  grown  so 
dark  again  that  I  could  see  things 
separately,  I  found  that  I  was  standing 
there  wrapped  tight  in  my  little  old, 
brown,  earthly  cloak,  and  God  and 
the  man  were  separated  from  each 
other,  and  from  me. 

I  did  not  dare  say  I  would  go  and 
make  music  beside  the  man.  I  knew  I 
could  not  reach  even  to  his  knee,  nor 
move  the  instrument  he  played.  But  I 
thought    I    would   stand    there    on    my 


ACROSS  MY  BED.  179 

little  peak  and  sing  an  accompaniment 
to  that  great  music.  And  I  tried  ;  but 
my  voice  failed.  It  piped  and  qua- 
vered. I  could  not  sing  that  tune.  I 
was  silent. 

Then  God  pointed  to  me,  that  I 
should  go  out  of  Heaven. 

And  I  cried  to  God,  '*  Oh,  let  me 
stay  here !  If  indeed  it  be,  as  I  know 
it  is,  that  I  am  not  great  enough  to  sing 
upon  the  mountain,  nor  strong  enough  to 
labour  on  its  side,  nor  bright  enough  to 
shine  and  love  within  the  garden,  at 
least  let  me  go  down  to  the  great 
gateway;  humbly  I  will  kneel  there 
sweeping ;  and,  as  the  saved  pass  in, 
I  will  see  the  light  upon  their  faces. 
I  shall  hear  the  singing  in  the  garden, 
and  the  shout  upon  the  hillside " 

God  said,  **  It  may  not  be ; "  he 
pointed. 

And  I  cried,  "  If  I  may  not  stay  in 


l8o  THE  SUNLIGHT  LA  V 

Heaven,  then  let  me  go  down  to  Hell, 
and  I  will  grasp  the  hands  of  men 
and  women  there  ;  and  slowly,  holding 
one  another's  hands,  we  will  work  our 
way  upwards." 

Still  God  pointed. 

And  I  threw  myself  upon  the  earth 
and  cried,  *'  Earth  is  so  small,  so 
mean !  It  is  not  meet  a  soul  should 
see  Heaven  and  be  cast  out  again ! " 

And  God  laid  his  hand  on  me,  and 
said,  "  Go  back  to  earth  :  ^Aa^  which 
you  seek  is  there*' 

I  awoke :  it  was  morning.  The  silence 
and  darkness  of  the  night  were  gone. 
Through  my  narrow  attic  window  I  saw 
the  light  of  another  day.  I  closed  my 
eyes  and  turned  towards  the  wall  :  I 
could  not  look  upon  the  dull  grey  world. 

In  the  streets  below,  men  and  women 
streamed  past  by  hundreds  ;  I  heard  the 


ACROSS  MY  BED.  i8i 

beat  of  their  feet  on  the  pavement. 
Men  on  their  way  to  business  ;  servants 
on  errands  ;  boys  hurrying  to  school ; 
weary  professors  pacing  slowly  the  old 
street  ;  prostitutes,  men  and  women, 
dragging  their  feet  wearily  after  last 
night's  debauch ;  artists  with  quick, 
impatient  footsteps  ;  tradesmen  for 
orders ;  children  to  seek  for  bread.  I 
heard  the  stream  beat  by.  And  at 
the  alley's  mouth,  at  the  street  corner, 
a  broken  barrel-organ  was  playing; 
sometimes  it  quavered  and  almost 
stopped,  then  went  on  again,  like  a 
broken  human  voice. 

I  listened  :  my  heart  scarcely  moved ; 
it  was  as  cold  as  lead.  I  could  not  bear 
the  long  day  before  me  ;  and  I  tried  to 
sleep  again;  yet  still  I  heard  the  feet 
upon  the  pavement.  And  suddenly  I 
heard  them  cry  loud  as  they  beat, 
**  We   are   seek'ng ! — we    are    seeking  ! 


1 82    SUNLIGHT  LA  Y  ACROSS  MY  BED. 

— we  are  seeking ! "  and  the  broken 
barrel-organ  at  the  street  corner  sobbed, 
"  The  Beautiful ! — the  Beautiful ! — the 
Beautiful!"  And  my  heart,  which  had 
been  dead,  cried  out  with  every  throb, 
"  Love  ! — Truth  ! — the  Beautiful  ! — the 
Beautiful ! "  It  was  the  music  I  had 
heard  in  Heaven  that  I  could  not  sing 
there. 

And  fully  I  awoke. 

Upon  the  faded  quilt,  across  my  bed 
a  long  yellow  streak  of  pale  London 
sunlight  was  lying.  It  fell  through  my 
narrow  attic  window. 

I  laughed.     I  rose. 

I  was  glad  the  long  day  was  before 
me. 

Paris  and  London. 


"^^^^ 


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As  bits  of  imaginative  writing,  Mrs.  Oliphant's  "  Stories  of  the  Seen  and 
the  Unseen"  are  exquisite  productions.  The  experience  of  tlie  Little  Pilgrim 
on  her  waking  in  heaven,  and  her  return  to  earth  with  her  soul  filled  with  the 
light  of  a  Divine  beneficence  and  her  mind  sure  of  those  higher  truths,  to 
soothe  earthly  sufferers  revolting  against  the  bitterness  of  loss  and  pain,  are 
told  with  the  sublimated  spirituality  of  one  who  has  just  passed  through  a  long 
illness,  and  whose  mind,  weak  to  the  impressions  of  the  external  world,  is 
peculiarly  sensitive  to  spiritual  visions.  No  one  could  have  written  with  more 
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future  existence  which  the  human  heart  pictures  to  itself  by  the  word  heaven ; 
and  the  story  of  "  Old  Lady  Mary  "  will  remain  a  distinct  success  among  tales 
of  imaginative  literature. —  The  Critic. 

We  commend  the  literary  delicacy  and  power  of  these  stories,  and  even 
more  their  tender,  stimulating  spirituality.  —  Congregationalisi. 

Deep  spiritual  truths  are  given  a  new  beauty ;  the  idea  of  Divine  love  and 
beneficence  is  never  lost  sight  of,  and  the  heart  that  is  filled  with  sorrow  will 
find  in  the  story  of  the  Little  Pilgrim  a  soothing  charm  and  a  something  that 
may  Keal  the  scars  which  have  been  made  by  grief  and  bereavement.  —  Phila- 
delphia Record. 

-—* 

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Messrs.   Roberts   Brothers'  Publications. 

THE  WHAT-TO-DO  CLUB. 

A   STOKY   FOR   GIRLS. 

By  Helen  Campbell. 
i6mo.     Cloth.     Price  $1.50. 


**  *  The  What-to-do  Club '  is  an  unpretending  story.  It  introauces  as  to  a 
dozen  or  more  village  girls  of  varying  ranks.  One  has  had  superior  opportuni- 
ties ;  another  exceptional  training ;  two  or  three  have  been  '  away  to  school ; ' 
some  are  farmers'  daughters ;  there  is  a  teacher,  two  or  three  poor  self -support- 
ers, —  in  fact,  about  such  an  assemblage  as  any  town  between  New  York  and 
Chicago  might  give  us.  But  while  there  is  a  large  enough  company  to  furnish  a 
delightful  coterie,  there  is  absolutely  no  social  life  among  them.  .  .  .  Town  ard 
country  need  mere  improving,  enthusiastic  work  to  redeem  them  from  barrenness 
and  indolence.  Our  girls  need  a  chance  to  do  independent  work,  to  study  prac- 
tical business,  to  fill  their  minds  with  other  thoughts  than  the  petty  doings  of 
neighbors.  A  What-to-do  Club  is  one  step  toward  higher  village  life.  It  is  one 
step  toward  disinfecting  a  neighborhood  of  the  poisonous  gossip  which  floats  like 
a  pestilence  around  localities  which  ought  to  furnish  the  most  desirable  homes  in 
our  country."  —  The  Chautauquan. 

"  'The  What-to-do  Club  '  is  a  delightful  story  for  girls,  especially  for  New 
England  girls,  by  Helen  Campbell.  The  heroine  of  the  story  is  Sybil  Waite,  the 
beautiful,  resolute,  and  devoted  dau;;hter  of  a  broken-down  but  highly  educated 
Vermont  lawyer.  The  story  shows  how  much  it  is  possible  for  a  well-trained  and 
determined  young  woman  to  accomplish  when  she  sets  out  to  earn  her  own  living, 
or  help  others.  Sybil  begins  with  odd  jobs  of  carpentering,  and  becomes  an  artist 
in  woodwork.  She  is  first  jeered  at,  then  admired,  respected,  and  finally  loved 
by  a  worthy  man.  The  book  closes  pleasantly  with  John  claiming  Sybil  as  his 
own.  The  labors  of  Sybil  and  her  friends  and  of  the  New  Jersey  '  Busy  Bodies,' 
which  are  said  to  be  actual  facts,  ought  to  encourage  many  young  women  to  more 
successful  competition  in  the  battles  of  life."  —  Golden  Rule. 

"  In  the  form  of  a  story,  this  book  suggests  ways  in  which  young  women 
Biay  make  money  at  home,  with  practical  directions  for  so  doing.  Stories  witli  a 
moral  are  not  usually  interesting,  but  this  one  is  an  exception  to  the  rule.  The 
carrative  is  lively,  the  incidents  probable  and  amusing,  the  characters  well-drawn, 
ard  the  dialects  various  and  characteristic.  Mrs.  Campbell  is  a  tiatural  story- 
teller, anS  has  the  gift  of  making  a  tale  interesting.  Even  the  recijes  for  pickles 
and  preserves,  evaporating  fruits,  Vaising  poultry,  and  keeping  bees,  are  made 
poetic  and  invested  with  a  certain  ideal  glamour,  and  we  are  thriiUd  and  absorbed 
by  an  array  of  figures  of  receipts  and  expenditures,  equally  with  the  changeful 
incidents  of  flirtation,  courtship,  and  matrimony.  Fun  and  pathos,  sense  and 
sentiment,  are  mmgled  throughout,  and  the  combination  has  resulted  in  oiie  ot 
die  brightest  stories  of  the  season."  —  H^oman's  Jourtuil- 


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ME.  WILLIAM  MORRIS'S  WORKS. 
THE    EARTHLY    PARADISE. 

^  Collection  of  STalee  in  Veiet. 

PARTS   I.  and  11. 
Prologue,  March,  April,  Mav,  June,  July,  and  August, 
containing  the  Stories  ol  — 
The  Wanderers.  The  Writing  on  the  Image. 

Atalanta's  Race.  The  Love  of  Alcestis. 

The  Man  born  to  be  King.  The  Lady  of  the  Land. 

The  Doom  of  King  Acrisius.  The  Son  of  Croesus. 

The  Proud  King.  The  Watching  of  the  Falcon. 

Cupid  and  h'syche.  Pygmalion  and  the  Image. 

Ogier  the  Dane. 

PART   III. 

September,  October^  and  Novembp.r,  containing  the  Stories  of — 
The  Death  of  Paris.  The   Man   who    Never   Laughed 

The  Land  kast  of  the  Sun  and  Again- 

West  of  the  Moon.  The  Story  of  Rhodope. 

Accontius  and  Cydippe.  The  Lovers  of  Gudrun. 

PART   IV. 
December,  January,  and  February,  Epilogue,  and  L'Envoi, 
containing  the  Stories  of — 
The  Golden  Apples.  The  Ring  given  to  Venus. 

The  Fostering  of  Aslaug.  Eellerophon  in  Lycia. 

Bellerophon  at  Argos.  The  hill  of  Venus. 

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♦ 

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Messrs.  Roberts  Brothers'  Publications. 


PRISONERS  OF  POVERTY. 

WOMEN  WAGE-WORKERS :  THEIR  TRADES  AND 
THEIR  LIVES. 

By   HELEN    CAMPBELL, 

AUTHOR    OF  "the    WHAT- TO-DO    CLUB,"    "  MRS.    HERNDON'S    INCOME,"   "  MISS 

melinda's  opportunity,"  etc 
l6mo.     Cloth.    $i.oo.     Paper,  50  cents. 


The  author  writes  earnestly  and  warmly,  but  without  prejudice,  and  her  volume 
is  an  elocjuent  plea  for  the  amelioration  of  the  evils  with  which  she  deals.  In  the 
present  importance  into  which  the  labor  question  generally  has  loomed,  this  vol- 
ume is  a  timely  and  valuable  contribution  to  its  literaiure,  and  merits  wide  read- 
ing and  careful  thought.  —  Saturday  Evening-  Gazette. 

She  has  given  us  a  most  effective  picture  of  the  condition  of  New  York  working- 
women,  because  she  has  brought  to  the  study  of  the  subject  not  only  great  care 
but  uncommon  aptitude.  She  has  made  a  close  personal  investigation,  extending 
apparently  over  a  long  time ;  she  has  had  the  penetration  to  search  many  queer 
and  dark  corners  which  are  not  often  thought  of  by  similar  explorers ;  and  we 
suspect  that,  unlike  too  many  philanthropists,  she  has  the  faculty  of  winning  con- 
fidence and  extracting  the  truth.  She  is  sympathetic,  but  not  a  sentimentalist ; 
she  appreciates  exactness  in  facts  and  figures  ;  she  can  see  both  sides  of  a  ques- 
tion, and  she  has  abundant  common  sense.  — A>«/  York  Tribune. 

Helen  Campbell's  "Prisoners  of  Poverty"  is  a  striking  example  of  the  trite 
phrase  that  "  truth  is  stranger  than  fiction."  It  is  a  series  of  pictures  of  the  lives 
of  women  wage-workers  in  New  York,  based  on  the  minutest  personal  inquiry  and 
observation.  No  work  of  fiction  has  ever  presented  more  startling  pictures,  and, 
indeed,  if  they  occurred  in  a  novel  would  at  once  be  stamped  as  a  figment  of  the 
brain.  .  .  .  Altogether,  Mrs.  Campbell's  book  is  a  notable  contribution  to  the  labor 
literature  of  the  day,  and  will  undoubtedly  enlist  sympathy  for  the  cause  of  the  op- 
pressed working-women  whose  stories  do  tlieir  own  pleading.  —  Springfield  Union. 

It  is  good  to  see  a  new  book  by  Helen  Campbell.  She  has  written  several 
for  the  cause  of  working-women,  and  now  comes  her  latest  and  best  work,  called 
"  Prisoners  of  Poverty,"  on  women  wage-workers  and  their  lives.  It  is  compiled 
from  a  series  of  papers  written  for  the  Sunday  edition  of  a  New  York  paper.  Tlie 
author  is  well  qualified  to  write  on  these  topics,  having  personally  investigated  the 
horrible  situation  of  a  vast  army  of  working-women  in  New  York,  —  a  retlection  of 
the  same  conditions  that  exist  in  all  large  cities. 

It  is  glad  tidings  to  hear  that  at  last  a  voice  is  raised  for  the  woman  side  of  these 
great  labor  questions  that  are  seething  below  the  surface  calm  of  soc.ety.  And  it 
IS  well  that  one  so  eloquent  and  sympathetic  as  Helen  Campbell  has  spoken  in  be- 
half of  the  victims  and  against  the  horrors,  the  injustices,  and  the  crimes  that  have 
forced  them  into  conditions  of  living  —  if  it  can  be  called  living  —  that  are  worse  than 
death.  It  is  painful  to  read  of  these  terrors  that  exist  so  near  our  doors,  but  none 
the  less  necessary,  for  no  person  of  mind  or  heart  can  thrust  this  knowledge  aside. 
It  is  the  first  step  towards  a  solution  of  the  labor  complications,  some  of  which 
have  assumed  foul  shapes  and  colossal  proportions,  through  ignorance,  weakness, 
and  wickedness.  —  Hart/otd  Titties. 


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Messrs.  Roberts  Brothers   Publications. 


PRISONERS  OF  POVERTY  ABROAD 

By  HELEN  CAMPBELL, 

AUTHOR   OF    "the   WHAT-TO-DO-CLUB,"    "PRISONERS   OF    POVERTY," 

"  ROGER  Berkeley's  probation,"  etc 
16mo.    Cloth.    Price,  fl.OO ;  paper,  60  cents. 


Mrs.  Helen  Campbell,  an  occasional  and  valued  contributor  to  this 
journal,  and  the  author  of  "  Prisoners  of  Poverty,"  and  other  studies  of 
social  questions  in  this  country,  has  offered  in^this  book  conclusions  drawn 
from  investigations  on  the  same  themes  made  abroad,  principally  in  England 
or  France.  She  has  devoted  personal  attention  and  labor  to  the  work,  and, 
although  much  of  what  she  describes  has  been  depicted  before  by  others, 
she  tells  her  story  with  a  freshness  and  an  earnestness  which  give  it  excep- 
tional interest  and  value.  Her  volume  is  one  of  testimony.  She  does  not 
often  attempt  to  philosophize,  but  to  state  facts  as  tliey  are,  so  that  they 
may  plead  their  own  cause.  She  puts  before  the  reader  a  series  of  pic- 
tures, vividly  drawn,  but  carefully  guarded  from  exaggeration  or  distortion, 
that  he  may  form  his  own  opinions.  —  Congregationalist. 

Can  life  be  worth  living  to  the  hordes  of  miserable  women  who  have  to 
work  from  fifteen  to  eighteen  hours  a  day  for  a  wage  of  from  twenty-five  to 
thirty-five  or  forty  cents?  And  what  have  all  the  study  of  political  economy, 
all  the  writing  of  treatiszs  about  labor,  all  the  Parliament;! ry  debates,  all  the 
blue  books,  all  the  philanthropic  organizations,  all 'the  appeals  to  a  common 
humanity,  don^,  in  half  a  century,  for  these  victims  of  what  is  called  modem 
civilization?  Mis,  Campbell  is  by  no  means  a  sentimentalist.  We  know 
of  no  one  who  examines  facts  more  coolly  and  practically,  or  who  labors 
more  earnestly  to  find  the  real  causes  for  the  continued  depression  of  the 
labor  market,  as  this  horrible  state  of  things  is  euphemistically  termed. 
The  conclusions  she  reaches  are  therefore  sober  and  trustworthy. — New 
York  Tribune. 

No  work  of  fiction,  however  imaginative,  could  present  more  startling 
pictures  than  does  this  little  book,  which  is  sympathetic,  but  not  sentimen- 
tal, the  result  of  personal  investiga  tion,  and  a  most  valuable  contribution  to 
the  literature  of  the  labor  question.  —  Philadelphia  Record. 

Mrs.  Helen  Campbell's  "  Prisoners  of  Poverty,"  a  study  of  the  con- 
dition of  some  of  the  lower  strata  of  the  laboring  classes,  particularly  the 
working-women  in  the  great  cities  of  the  United  States,  is  supplemented 
with  another  volume,  "  Prisoners  of  Poverty  Abroad,"  in  which  the  life  of 
working-women  of  European  cities,  chiefly  London  and  Paris,  is  depicted 
with  equally  graphic  and  terrible  truthfulness. 

They  are  the  result  of  fifteen  months  of  travel  and  study,  and  are  exam- 
ples of  Mrs.  Campbell's  well-known  methods  of  examination  and  descrip- 
tion. They  paint  a  horrible  picture,  but  a  truthful  one,  and  no  person  of 
even  ordinary  sensibilities  can  read  these  books  without  experiencing  a 
strong  desire  to  do  something  to  abate  the  monstrous  injustice  which  they 
describe.  —  Good  Housekeeping. 


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Messrs.  Roberts  Brothers'  Pubhcuiiofis, 


SOME  WOMEN'S  HEARTS 

By  LOUISE   CHANDLER   MOULTON. 

i6mo.     Cloth,  J1.25;  Paper,  50  cents. 


"The  title  of  the  book  which  Mrs.  Moulton  now  sends  forth  is  b« 
descriptive  of  a  sincle  story  filling  the  whole  volume,  but  is  the  ribbon 
which  binds  together  in  one  volume  eight  stories  of  various  length  The 
title  proves  to  be  something  more  than  an  external  ligatur*  It  is  the  hint 
of  a  connection  that  is  far  deeper,  and  that  groups  these  stories  into  each 
other's  company  for  the  very  good  reason  that  they  are  really  of  kia 
They  tell  the  heart-history  of  women  who  have  had  to  accept  in  this  life 
some  large  portion  of  temptation,  adversity,  and  sorrow,  and  have  been 
Eaithful  and  true,  and  have  gained  the  victory.  .  ,  .  Mrs.  Moulton  has  the 
incommunicable  tact  of  the  story-teller.  She  sees  with  the  certainty  of 
instinct  what  belongs  to  a  story  and  what  does  not ;  has  the  resolution  tc 
■acrifice  whatever  is  incongruous ;  adjusts  the  narrative  in  a  sequence  thai 
arouses  expectation  from  the  start  and  holds  it  to  the  end.  We  find,  also, 
in  these  novelettes,  a  quality  which  characterizes  all  her  writmgs  in  thii 
kind,  —  not  merely  artistic  perfection  in  form,  but  artistic  unity  in  substance. 
Each  story  of  hers  is  complete,  and  each  is  single-  A  severe  logical  Ian 
controls  each,  —  a  law  which  makes  these  stories  seem  a  growth,  and  not 
a  manufacture.  Each  is  as  perfect  in  this  unity  as  a  Greek  tragedy  or  a 
sonnet  of  Petrarch's.  There  is  no  'moral'  appended  to  any;  yet  thj 
moral  of  every  one  is  so  interwoven  with  its  texture,  and  so  inevitable  a 
part  of  it,  as  to  make  its  impressiveness  at  times  overwhelming."  —  Ckria- 
tutn  Union. 

"  The  groundwork  of  these  stories  betrays  a  rare  insight  into  the  mys- 
teries of  human  emotion."  —  The  N.  Y.  Tribune- 

"  Taken  as  a  whole,  there  is  hardly  a  better  collection  of  short  stories 
Dy  an  American  writer  in  print."  —  The  Literary  IVorld. 

"A  bouquet  of  as  graceful  and  fragrant  stories  as  were  ever  bound  up 
together."  —  The  Golden  Age, 

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Mrs.  HELEN  JACKSON'S  WEITINQS. 


STORIES. 

RAMONA.     50th  thousand ^1.50 

ZEPH.     A  Posthumous  Story 1,25 

MERCY  PHILBRICK'S  CHOICE i.oo 

HETTY'S   STRANGE   HISTORY 1,00 

BETWEEN     WHILES.    A  Collection  of  Stories    ....    1.25 

TRAVEL. 

BITS  OF  TRAVEL ^1.25 

BITS   OF  TRAVEL  AT   HOME 1.50 

GLIMPSES   OF   THREE   COASTS 1.50 

POEMS. 

VERSES   BY  H.   H jJi.oo 

SONNETS   AND    LYRICS.     Being  a  concluding  volume  of 

"  Verses  " i.o« 

HELEN    JACKSON'S    COMPLETE    POEMS.    Includ- 
ing "  Verses  "  and  "  Sonnets  and  Lyrics."     In  one  volume.     i6mo.     1.50 
White  cloth,  gilt,  S1.75. 


A  CENTURY  OF  DISHONOR.  A  Sketch  of  the  United 
States  Government's  Dealings  with  some  of  the  Indian  Tribes. 
Seventh  edition,  enlarged  by  the  addition  of  the  report  of  the  needs 
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BITS  OF  TALK  ABOUT  HOME  MATTERS  .  .  .  i.oo 


JUVENILE. 

BITS    OF    TALK    FOR  YOUNG   FOLKS    .....  gi.oo 

NELLY'S    SILVER   MINE.     A  Colorado  Story 1.50 

CAT    STORIES.     Comprising  "Letters  from  a  Cat,"  "Mammy 

I'ittleback  and  her  Family,"  and  "  The  Hunter  Cats  of  Connorloa." 

JP2.00;  or,  separately,  ^1.25  each. 


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^^/y^ 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  UBRARY  FAauTY 


, ^..„, _.., II 

A    000  690  498     1 


